


While Kicking and Biting

by BurningSilence



Series: Saga of the Sauveterres [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, F/F, F/M, Implied Relationships, Sexual Content, Violence, a little dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-02-10 12:38:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 92,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12912096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurningSilence/pseuds/BurningSilence
Summary: Everyone in Tamriel has heard of the Oblivion Crisis at the end of the third era and the strange story of the Champion of Cyrodiil, but within a couple of generations after her unexplained disappearance, the dwindling Sauveterre family has dimmed into somewhat infamous obscurity. Now, 200 years later, with the reemergence of dragons, a civil war, mercurial Daedric Princes, and a looming apocalypse, Gwyneira Sauveterre of Bruma being called the Last Dragonborn is the cruelest joke played by the Divines.She had just wanted to get to High Rock.





	1. The First Branch: Prologue

Snow fell from the branches of the pines that lined the pathway that cut through the Jerall Mountains as they neared the base where the frost covered ground thawed under the clacking of the horses’ hooves and Imperial boots. The air burned under Magnus and vapor sprouted from the forest floor and curled in silver threads that stretched into the hazy morning. 

 

Gwyneira sniffed, blinking back the pins that pricked the corners of her eyes as she felt the carriage jump and sway with the poorly maintained road it drove along on. 

 

“Hey you, you’re finally awake,” an accented voice said. She looked up at the blond Nord sitting near her to see him watching her. “You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us and that thief over there.”

 

“Damn you Stormcloaks,” the aforementioned man grumbled while she nodded. “Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been searching for you I’d have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell.” He turned towards Gwyneira, a scowl on his face. “You and me, we shouldn’t be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.”

 

Gwyneira couldn’t help but agree. 

 

“We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now,” the blond stated.

 

She shook her head, leaving them to bicker, and watched the trees pass by them, feeling the bite of the frigid air and she shivered in her seat, a coil twisting around her stomach, threatening to make its way up her throat as she listened to the two men bicker next to her. The edge of the cart’s railing dug into the middle of her back, into the knobs of vertebrae that rose along her spine, and she arched, lifting her face to the thickening clouds overhead. She filled her lungs with fragrant air, and the stretch and burn of her chest distracted her from the pit in her gut. Horse Thief snorted from across from her and she saw him incline his head from the edge of her line of sight. 

 

“What’s wrong with him?” she heard him ask, and she directed her sight to the man across from him, on the other side of Blondie.

 

“Watch your tongue!” her benchmate responded. “You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.”

 

Gwyneira frowned and strained her neck to get a look at the person that sat next to the blond. She only glimpsed his profile but saw the gag that pressed against his mouth and noticed the cloth already damp with spittle. She sighed and sat back, and angled her body toward the front of the carriage, but felt the other man lean forward in his seat.

 

“Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You’re the leader of the rebellion...if they’ve captured you...oh gods, where are they taking us.”

 

Gwyneira, again, agreed with Horse Thief. Judging by the behavior of the guards when they apprehended her--and her face still smarted from the blow Captain Smiles-a-Lot landed on her--it wasn’t anywhere they wanted to go. The pit in her stomach grew deeper and she took a few deep breaths through her nose, the sting of the mountain breeze making her sniffle.

 

Fuck.

 

That’ll show her to travel without the necessary paperwork, she mused while swallowing the spit that kept pooling in her mouth as her stomach gave another lurch with the road.

 

“No, this can’t be happening,” Horse Thief, again. She must have missed something. “This isn’t happening,” he repeated, and Gwyneira continued to stare down the path, her throat bobbing along, and she hugged her arms closer to her chest as well as she could, given the binds around her wrists.

 

“Hey, what village are you from, horse-thief?” She heard the blond’s words drift up from behind her, and Horse Thief’s response:

 

“Why do you care?”

 

“A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.”

 

And there it was, Gwyneira thought, they were going to be executed. Including her. For something she wasn’t even involved in. Fucking Skyrim and their civil war. She should have toughed it out in Cyrodiil. Or at least travelled through Hammerfell instead. Not that there were any great options anyway.

 

“What about you?” Blond Stormcloak asked her. She faced him and shrugged.

 

“I’m not a Nord,” she said. 

 

She let her attention wander and he didn’t try to make conversation, and she felt the cart rock and lurch until they pulled into the town they were destined for with a final stutter that jostled her from her near-comfortable position. 

 

“Why are we stopping?” Horse Thief decided to pipe up again and she closed her eyes and let out an irritated puff of air as her lids fluttered open again. One of the guards released the latch at the back of the carriage to let the door and ramp swing open, hitting the compressed dirt of the village they wound up in with a thud, and began to direct the other prisoners out.

 

“Why do you think? End of the line,” Blond said as he began to heave himself off of the seat. “Let's go, we shouldn’t keep the gods waiting.”

 

Gwyneira stood up alongside him while Horse Thief panicked. “We’re not rebels!” He gestured between himself and her. “You’ve got to tell them we weren’t with you!”

 

“Face your death with some courage, thief,” Blond admonished.

 

Easy for him to say, she thought. He was dying for something he believed in. Would have been nice to have even that chance. 

 

“Step towards the block when we call your name,” an unpleasant Imperial woman called, scowling as she stood next to another Legionnaire, a Nord. “One at a time!”

 

“The Empire loves their damned lists,” Blond muttered to her, and she snorted, her lips quirking up into a smirk. 

 

“Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm,” Nord Legionnaire called out, and the gagged man she’d spied earlier stepped forward. 

 

“It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric,” Blond said. 

 

She held back a snort this time and stared up at the back of his head from under her lashes with an arched brow before she rolled her eyes and glanced back to the Imperials.

 

“Ralof of Riverwood,” Legionnaire called, and Blond--Ralof--followed his jarl. “Lokir of Rorikstead!”

 

Unfortunately, that was about the time good sense wore off and Horse Thief decided to make a run for it, and he was quickly shot down.

 

Her lids closed and took in another breath perfumed with evergreen sap and damp soil and rotting hay as she unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth.  

 

“Anyone else feel like running?” Captain Chipper asked, and Gwyneira felt the breath escape her in shimmering mist that dissolved in front of her. 

 

Legionnaire dragged his head up, brows furrowed and he gazed at her. She looked around, but he called out to her, “You there, step forward.”

 

She did so, the sensation gone from her legs and her gait was stuttered and coltish, and she stood before him, noting his frown as he glanced back at his notes. 

 

“Who are you?” he asked her.

 

“Gwyneira Sauveterre,” she muttered. She saw his eyes widen a fraction before his expression smoothed over. 

 

“Breton, eh? Fleeing from some court intrigue?” he gave her a small smile. 

 

She shrugged. 

 

“Captain, what should we do? She’s not on the list.”

 

“Forget the list, Hadvar,” the woman ordered. “She goes to the block.”

 

Hadvar frowned and appeared almost apologetic. “I’m so sorry," he tried, and she watched his jaw tick as he clenched it. "We’ll make sure your remains get returned to High Rock.”

 

“Don’t bother,” she interrupted. “I’m from Bruma. Just--” she inhaled and felt a vice around her lungs and that pricking sensation burned her again. “Can you just make sure my father is notified?”

 

“Of course,” he told her. “I’ll make a note of his name so we can dispatch a courier.”

 

“Adalard Sauveterre. Thank you.”

 

“Follow the captain, prisoner.”

 

She let out a breath and felt herself shaking and heard her blood pounding in her ears, rumbling and growling, and underneath the vacuum she heard Tullius accuse Stormcloak of treason, and something about a voice, and regicide and Skyrim and chaos. Her blood kept rushing.

 

“What was that?” Hadvar asked from behind her.

 

“It’s nothing, carry on,” Tullius said. 

 

Gwyneira watched herself as she stood with the Stormcloaks as a priestess blessed the...event? Victims? She wasn’t sure. Then, she saw the headsman’s ax come down on one of the Stormcloaks whose name she never caught. It severed his head clean from his body, the metallic tang bursting in the air, and her stomach roiled with it, and her body went hot and then cold, and her lips became numb as the heat drained from her flesh and into the ground beneath her. She swooned, but felt Hadvar steady her with his warm hands on her shoulders. 

 

She looked back at him, at the softness in his gaze, and she swallowed. 

 

“Will it hurt?” she asked him through her chattering teeth. She clamped them down around the spongy flesh of her cheek and tasted copper.

 

He shook his head. “The headsman here is very good,” he told her, softly, and he rubbed her shoulder. “The blow will be subtle.”

 

She nodded, then laughed. “Good thing I have a skinny neck then,” she told him, her  voice wet and thin, and he tilted his head toward her.

 

“I am so sorry for this.”

 

She shrugged, and thanked him for catching her lest she embarrass herself moments before her death. “I don’t want to leave a bad impression,” she told him. He gave her another smile and patted her on the shoulder before she made her way to the executioner. 

 

The headsman gestured for her to kneel, and she stood for a moment, closing her eyes and listening to the slight breeze wind through the trees and the corridors of the village and felt the tempered heat of Magnus on her cheeks before she felt a nudge from behind against her back. She got to her knees, the pebbles on the ground digging into her flesh and scraping the bony joints and she placed her cheek against the chopping block, the blood soaking into her hair and staining her skin. 

 

She thought of her mother who, years ago, would have been appalled, and her father would have told her to leave her be before he swooped her up in his arms and spun her around until she got sick and her mother would tell him that she told him so. 

 

She was aware that the headsman raised his ax, and she took a deep breath, focusing her sight beyond his shoulder even as she felt her face grow tacky with gore and sweat. Then, she furrowed her brow when she saw a black figure become larger and larger and then a horrible roar reverberated in the town square and she heard one of the soldiers shout out as the thing made itself known, its wings spread wide and and mouth agape.

 

“What in Oblivion is that?”

 

The creature landed on the tower she faced, its tail curving around the top of it, and she would have laughed at the way the headsman faltered had her hands not been bound and her face only inches away from a severed head in a basket. 

 

“Is that a fucking dragon?” she shrieked before the thing let out another bellow that she felt shake the earth and vibrate into her very bones, and she saw it knock the executioner right off of his feet. The sky grew dreary and hazy, with fire bolting down on them, and pandemonium broke out. It shouted again and knocked Gwyneira back. She stumbled to right herself, hands still bound and disoriented, and she heard people screaming and saw the other prisoners scrambling to get away in the confusion. 

 

Soldiers were shouting at each other, struggling to fire their arrows and lead the townsfolk to safety. She blinked several times to clear the fog in front of her as she kept tearing up from the sting of smoke and charred flesh that hung in the air. 

 

She heard Ralof call out to her, “Come on, follow me!” She whipped around to face him and he waved her over. “This is our only chance; we won’t get another.” And not wanting to take any chances herself, she ran after the rebel soldiers as they rushed into a tower. 

 

When they settled down a bit, Gwyneira bent over to stave off a wave of nausea that swept over her and took in deep gulps of air like she was drowning. Ralof used a dagger he found to unbind his own wrists, then moved to Jarl Ulfric. 

 

“My Jarl, what is that thing? Could the legends be true?”

 

After spitting out the gag, Ulfric frowned and looked to Ralof. “Legends don’t burn down villages.”

 

Gwyneira found herself nodding before another roar echoed in the tower and a section of the wall upstairs burst inward and crashed down the stairs, narrowly missing the extremely unlucky group of lawbreakers. The Breton almost squeaked when she saw the black snout of the dragon come through the fresh window and let out a stream of fire, heating the little room they were in to the point of her almost passing out. 

 

“We need to move, now,” Ralof said through the settling of debris, and when the dragon retreated from them and grabbed the girl’s arm and headed up the stairs. They peered out of the hole and he pointed to the ruins of an inn. “You should jump through the roof and keep going. We’ll follow when we can.”

 

She raised her eyebrows at him, but sighed and bit her lip; she was either going to die now or later. 

 

And so she leaped out of the window, landing hard on the wooden floor inside of the burned out building, her ankles and shins jarring from the impact, and the lack of balance she could receive from her arms left her stumbling before she could steady herself. She darted down the stairs until she reached what was left of the town square, and saw Hadvar calling a young boy over to him when the dragon landed in front of them and blew another pillar of fire into the town, scorching another body, but missing the boy and Hadvar. 

 

The soldier looked up and gestured her to follow him. “Keep close to me if you want to stay alive,” he told her. He shouted at another man to take care of the boy and made his way to her, scanning the sky. He grabbed her by the arm and she scrambled after him with her feet slipping in the dirt and spilled straw. “Stay close to the wall,” he said, voice low, and he pushed her behind him. She felt the ground quiver from the dragon landing on the wall they were under and Hadvar stopped them, keeping her shielded when more fire flowed from the beast’s mouth. When it launched itself up and away from them, they resumed their path, with Hadvar telling her they were headed to the Keep and that they should be safe enough in there for the time being.

 

They wound up crossing paths with Ralof and the other Stormcloaks. The air stilled as the two groups intersected, and both men stood stiff across from each other. Gwyneira glanced between the two and felt her skin prickle and her back stiffened. She heard the crackle of fire and stone colliding with wood and even the wet thumps of bodies being dropped from the sky, but her eyes stayed on the scene in front of her.

 

“Ralof,” Hadvar shouted after a moment and she saw spittle fly through bloodless lips. “You damned traitor!”

 

The blond shook his head, sword in hand as he pointed it towards them. “We’re escaping, Hadvar, don’t try to stop us.” They stared at each other, and no one moved and the Breton felt her breath stutter in her chest.

 

“Fine. I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde,” he called after them as they ran towards another path and Gwyneira heard Hadvar curse under his breath before he took her arm in his grasp, hand curling around the slender limb, and tugged her after him and he pulled her towards a keep and pushed at the door. 

 

When they stepped inside of the Keep, Gwyneira turned to look at her would-be savior. “What. The. Fuck. Just happened?” she asked and held out her arms to him, nodding towards her wrists. “Well?” she asked. “Get me out of this,” she insisted, then bit her lip. “Er, please?” she tried, smiling up at him with her teeth, a heat plucking at the back of her next. “And, er, thank you. You know, for not...killing me? I guess?”

 

The Nord just shook his head and took a dagger out, then slid it between her binds, severing them, and she wiggled her fingers and rolled her shoulders behind her, popping her neck as she did so. She let a few sparks fly between her fingers as she wriggled life back into the stiff appendages. 

 

“So…” she started while she rubbed her palms on her thighs, wincing at the rough cloth scratching at her. “I guess you know what to do from here on out, right?”

 

* * *

 

Stormcloaks, a bear, and numerous frostbite spiders later, Gwyneira and Hadvar escaped the dank subterranean tunnels from underneath the crumbling tower. Gwyneira just wanted to get into a bed and forget the day ever happened. Maybe then she’d wake up in Cyrodiil, in her bed, with her father in the basement rearranging his family records again, this time by color instead of date or the alphabet. It didn’t really matter. 

 

He would have just rearranged them the next day. 

 

“Are you alright?” Hadvar asked. 

 

“Do I look like I’m fucking alright?” she snapped. Then she blew a long breath out between her pursed lips. “Look, I’m sorry. But I  was nearly executed for no reason and two, I just escaped a dragon. ‘I just escaped a dragon’ is now a sentence I can say.” She huffed, then threw her hands up in the air. “Oh! And how could I forget? I was less than a foot away from a severed head. I’ve never even really been around a dead body, but sure, let’s just throw in a severed head for good measure. I’m just fucking great.”

 

Hadvar nodded but held his hands up in front of him. “I am truly sorry for that business--”

 

“Business?” she shrieked. “I almost  _ died _ .” She ran her hands through her hair and huffed. “Sorry, sorry. It’s...it’s been a long day. Obviously. I know it wasn’t you. I get it. But  _ fuck, _ ” she groaned. “I just want to get to a bed and sleep.”

 

“I know this isn’t under the best of circumstances, but my uncle’s home is up the road, in Riverwood. They would let us stay there. If you wanted to,” he told her. 

 

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Sure. Why not? Don’t have anywhere else to go anyway.”

 

They started their journey in relative quiet, the running water of the river and birdsong drifting over the road and the wind whispering between tree branches. Gwyneira stretched her arms behind her head, feeling the soft material of the mage’s robes she swiped from the torture chamber slip against her skin--a welcome change from the roughspun tunic and pants from her holding cell. 

 

Hadvar broke the silence as they crossed over the river that ran through the mountainside and spoke over the babbling water as it broke over rock and echoed along the path.

 

“So,” he began, “your family name is Sauveterre…”

 

“Yes,” she grumbled. “And yes, it is that Sauveterre, and yes, things have been hard lately, and no, I don’t really care about the Champion of Cyrodiil.”

 

“I didn’t mean to hit such a sensitive topic,” Hadvar told her and looked out towards the hillside. 

 

She scowled for a moment, but it melted away and she blew a strand of hair out of her face. “No, I’m sorry. Just, you know, you hear it alot and it gets old after awhile. And it’s not like all of the stories about her are good.” She glared at the ground, kicking the small stones and flakes of bark that lay directly in front of her. “Yeah, sure, she did great things. I’m not...I’m not trying to take away from that. But--”

 

“I understand,” Hadvar cut in. “I apologize for bringing it up.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

Silence permeated between the two travelling companions as they made their way through the winding trail that ribboned across the forest. She kept glancing over at him, feeling herself flush. She shouldn’t have snapped like that. He was the first friendly face she’d come across since she entered this frozen hellhole. If it hadn’t been the easiest way to High Rock she wouldn’t have bothered. 

 

“Where were you on your way to, before the Legion got you?” he asked and interrupted her musings and she let a sigh escape her before she answered.

 

“High Rock,” she said. “I’d never been. Actually, no one in my family has gone back. We’ve all stayed in Cyrodiil.”

 

“Why were you going there then?”

 

She dropped her gaze and slumped her shoulders. “My father. He’s...not well, and I can’t take care of him anymore.”

 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he began but she shook her head.

 

“He’s been like that my whole life, but it’s gotten worse in the last year since...since, er, mother.”

 

Hadvar didn’t say anything for a long moment, and Gwyneira bit her lip, kicking her path with more force than before. She crossed her arms in front of her and hugged the little heat her body gave out back into herself. 

 

“So, why High Rock?” he questioned. 

 

“It’s stupid. Especially how I just bit your head off for asking about my name,” she scoffed. 

 

His lips curved. “Try me,” he chuckled.

 

“The Champion of Cyrodiil was from there. And my father is really into the family history. Too much. It’s unhealthy. I guess I was hoping to find something. To bring back to him. To make him happy. I don’t know. Like I said, it’s stupid.”

 

The Nord shook his head. “Not at all. I think it’s actually quite noble. But what do you expect to find?”

 

She scoffed, shrugging her shoulders. “I have no idea,” she confessed, and watched a deer sprint off to the side, bounding deeper into the treeline. “I guess her father had relatives in Wayrest and Daggerfall, so maybe something there. And I guess she collected daedric artifacts, but I imagine those are long gone by now. Maybe something written. It’s hard to find anything that’s a first-hand account. Father would, well, he’d like it if I could find something like that.”

 

Hadvar merely hummed and then he craned his head up a bit and pointed up the road. “That should be Riverwood there,” he told her, and she glanced where he directed his gaze.

 

She made a small noise. “Small town,” she observed as she took in the bridge ahead of them.  

 

“I suppose it is,” he laughed. “We’re almost there, though.”

 

She nodded and a dark structure in the distance caught her attention. “What’s that?” she asked and gestured to what distracted her, beyond Riverwood.

 

“Oh that,” he said, his expression twisting, and he informed her that it was Bleak Falls Barrow. She saw him shudder next to her and she frowned. “I used to have nightmares about that place as a child,” he confessed, a small smile creeping onto his face and he gave a small chuckle. “Was afraid of the draugr coming down from the mountain and climbing into my window while I was sleeping.”

 

She laughed a bit, then shook her head. “So, when I was a child, about nine or ten, there was this creepy old apple farm near where I lived, and all the other children in town said it was haunted. I mean, it hadn’t been lived in since the end of the third era. They said a massacre happened there, and they bet me a septim that I couldn’t spend the night in there.”

 

“Did you?”

 

“You bet I did,” she stated, standing up a bit straighter than before and her shoulders pushed back. “But I jumped at every sound and by the time morning came I was so hysterical my father had to come fetch me. The septim was worth the whipping I got,” she said, her smile mellowing, and she tilted her head. “The other children left me alone for a bit. I mean, I was the only one who spent the night in that shack.”

 

“Somehow, I’m not surprised,” he said, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. 

 

“Here,” he said, stopping them in front of a modest home and forge, just inside the town. “This is my uncle’s house. I’m sure we can stay here. At least for the night,” he assured her. “Let’s let them know we’re here.” 

 

She nodded, following him up the small set of stairs that led up to the front door and he pushed it open, allowing them entrance. She came in behind him and shut the door.

 

“Uncle Alvor! Hello!” Hadvar greeted an older man, pulling him in for a hug. 

 

“Not that it isn’t nice to see you, Hadvar, but what are you doing here? Are you on leave--” he cut himself off, standing back from the other man, his gaze moving up and down the Legionnaire’s body, and Gwyneira thought they must have appeared rather haggard after Helgen and tugged a bit at the hem of her robes. “Shor’s bones, what happened to you, boy?” she heard the man ask. “Are you in some kind of trouble?

 

“No, no, Uncle, I’m fine, but there is something we must discuss.”

 

The man, Alvor, then glanced at Gwyneira who had, up until then, decided Hadvar made decent enough cover for her. When his eyes landed on her, she stepped out from behind the other Nord with a grimace.

 

“Hadvar, who is this?”

 

“She’s a friend. Saved my life.” She gave him a look, brows raised and he shrugged.

 

Alvor paused for a moment, and then called out behind him, “Sigrid! We have company!”

 

A tall, blonde woman came up from what Gwyneira assumed was the root cellar and glanced at Hadvar and smiled. “We’ve been so worried about you! Come, you two must be hungry. Just go sit down and I’ll get you something to eat.”

 

The Breton wanted to cry, and her stomach gave a plaintive jolt. 

 

As they ate, Hadvar relayed what had happened at Helgen: the dragon, the destruction of the town along with their escape, though he left out the bits where Gwyneira had been on the chopping block. Gwyneira busied herself entertaining the couple’s daughter, whose name she learned was Dorthe by lighting minute sparks in her palms that popped and danced, but caught the aunt frowning at her. The Breton dropped her hands and stuffed them into the folds of her robes and flashed a grin to the girl before she skipped off to her father’s side. Gwyneira poked at the food on her plate, smearing the gravy and soggy bread on the clay surface of the dish. 

 

She let her attention wander, watching the play of shadows dancing on the ceiling and the walls from the flickering flames of the hearth as the sunlight that trickled in from the windows glowed orange as its source sank behind the horizon. Their voices continued to float around her, bending and whirling together until they settled into a dull hum that looped around the room, and she heard Alvor tell Hadvar that of course they could stay with them for the night, but his friend had to go tell the jarl about the dragon. She felt her head nod before she dropped her gaze back to her food, now mush, and stuck one more forkful in her mouth, feeling it weigh heavy on her tongue before she swallowed it.

 

Later, when Masser and Secunda hung high above the mountains, she and Hadvar lay beside each other on the family’s spare bed and she stared at that same ceiling. She counted the lines in the wooden planks that she could see in the dim lighting, and she tilted her face to peer the window, Secunda peeking in and bathing her in moonlight, and a sharp tug pierced her eyes as she listened to Hadvar’s steady breathing. He must have fallen asleep, she thought, bringing the covers around her shoulders and she burrowed down into the bedding. 

 

She turned away and her lids slid shut. 

 


	2. First Branch, Chapter One: A Song of Thunder

Gwyneira rubbed her arms against the crisp temperature of the plains of Whiterun as she walked along the road towards the hold capital. Despite the clear weather, the air bit through her skin and dug its claws into her robes. It was colder than she remembered even Bruma being during Last Seed. The sun shone, but she barely felt its warmth. Her teeth chattered over the roar of the White River that flowed under the bridge, and she resolved to find a more appropriate set of robes, or at least a nice cloak, before she went any farther than Whiterun. She’d go there, tell the jarl about the dragon at Helgen, then leave. 

 

In and out. And on to High Rock. She’d put Skyrim and its civil war and dragons behind her. 

 

She sighed, watching the air leave her in silver streams, and huddled in on herself. She shouldn’t have even agreed to Hadvar’s uncle’s request. Why couldn’t Hadvar have been the one to go? Wouldn’t they take him more seriously? He was a legionnaire, after all. She was nobody. A Breton from Bruma. An unremarkable one, at that. Few friends, a father rumoured to be mad, and no prospects, she supposed she hadn’t really left much behind in Cyrodiil. She couldn’t even get into the Synod, despite her mother having been a member some time ago. Before. 

 

Another life, she had said. 

 

The Breton stopped at the center of the bridge and leaned against the railing, looking over the running water as it carved its path into the stretch of land that made up the hold and saw the fish that swam within come to the surface every so often and nibble on the skittering insects that stopped to drink. She spied her distorted reflection, her messy hair and bruised eyes and glanced away, resting her head in her hand as she leaned forward even more against the balustrade. Then, she righted herself and shook her head, dusting off her clothing and pulling her hood over her head again, ignoring the nipping of the breeze against her ears. She saw Whiterun looming ahead; she had little reason to dally as long as she had.

 

In and out.

 

* * *

 

 

Later, she found herself walking with Jarl Balgruuf towards the mage’s study to offer her assistance. She huffed to herself and fought the urge to rub her hand over her face as she listened to Balgruuf make idle chat with her. Or rather, to her.

 

“He’ll probably be in a a bad mood,” the man cautioned her while he stroked his beard. “Mages, you know how those magical types are.”

 

She scowled at the floor. “I sure do,” she muttered. “Damn mages,” she deadpanned, glancing up at him from the corner of her eye.

 

“Well,” Balgruuf said after a beat, “Farengar needs someone to help him with...something. I’m not sure what; I’ll admit I wasn’t listening to carefully to him. He tends to go on about his research projects. But this had to do with dragons, and I think given the circumstances we could pay it more mind.”

 

Gwyneira raised her brows and nodded twice. 

 

As they approached the study, Balgruuf stepped through with Gwyneira trailing behind him. 

 

“Farengar,” the jarl boomed, and the occupant--a robed Nord, bent over an enchanting table--jumped and almost knocked a soul gem off of his work surface before he faced the two new additions to his office. The younger Breton winced. “I’ve found someone to assist you in your little project,” the jarl continued and stood to the side and let Gwyneira walked in front of him before backing out of the room. “I’ll let you two get acquainted and Farengar can explain the details to you, can’t you Farengar?” the Nord stated, looking between the two. 

 

The mage sighed and inclined his head in assent and Balgruuf left them alone. 

 

“So, you’re the one the jarl’s sending to me?” he queried, sniffing. “I suppose you’ll do,” he acquiesced, ignoring her mouth rolling around the words “I’ll do,” and he ploughed on, “I need you to get something for me.” He chuckled and shook his head. “I mean, I need you to go into a dangerous ruin and get something that may or may not be there.”

 

“I’m sorry, you need me to what?” Gwyneira asked as she stood in front of the court wizard of Whiterun. She watched him scowl and cross his arms, foot tapping on the floor before he went back to his work.

 

“The jarl asked you to help me, correct? Well, I need you to go to Bleak Falls Barrow for me,” he stated with a curled lip and she bristled at the sneer she heard in his nasal voice. “That should be easy enough for someone like you, yes?” he questioned. She glared at his work station and let her gaze rove over to his bookshelf. She eyed a well-loved tome on his desk and grinned. 

 

“Your catalogue of enchantments is out of date,” she pointed out. “That’s an old cover; another edition was released a couple years ago. My mother went wild when it came out,” she told him. She saw him jump a bit and turn back to face her, frowning. 

 

“Do you study?” he inquired.

 

The Breton shrugged and picked a fleck of lint off of her sleeve, rolling it between her fingers before she flicked it off onto the floor and she traced its path with her eyes as it fluttered down to the ground. “My mum did, back in Cyrodiil. Taught me some things.”

 

Farengar nodded and rubbed his chin, regarding her, and gestured for her to stand next to him. “I apologize for my earlier rudeness,” he said, “but you wouldn’t believe the number of idiots I get in here, poking around, claiming to be on business for the jarl. Of course, some of them are, but they’re completely useless,” the mage scoffed. “More muscles than brains, for Julianos’ sake.” He looked her over and Gwyneira twitched, tugging her sleeves over her wrists as Farengar cleared his throat. “You seem to be a cut above the usual brutes the jarl sends my way, though. There’s something in the Barrow that I need for my research on dragons. A dragonstone, to be precise.”

 

“Dragonstone? And you were just researching dragons? For...no reason?”

 

He fixed her with a burning gaze and she took a step back. “I wouldn’t say for no reason,” he mumbled and began to rummage through his desk, rifling through various pieces of parchment, “but I imagine now it would be quite fortuitous, don’t you think?” He pulled a slip of paper out and Gwyneira stretched her neck to take a look. 

 

“A map?” 

 

She heard his sigh and she pursed her lips. “Yes, a map. This is as best as I can do if you’re going to go to Bleak Falls for me; I received this from my...associate,” he told her, and redirected his sight when she furrowed her brow. “I can’t reveal everything to you, now can I? It’s not exactly my information to give. I just need you get in there and...well...retrieve that stone for me.”

 

“And then...?” she prompted and leaned forward.

 

“And then,” he snapped, “that is where your work ends, and mine begins. The work of the mind,” he told her, then muttered “sadly undervalued, here in Skyrim.” He glanced back up and furrowed his brow. “Are you still here? You need to get going,” he chastised. “You don’t want to head out when it’s dark, do you?”

 

Cursing under her breath, she swept out of the room, rolling her eyes as she stalked down the main hall. If she didn’t need the money to get out of the frozen wasteland that Skyrim was she wouldn’t even bother. Let them deal with their own problems, dragons be damned.

 

* * *

 

  
  


Gwyneira stared at the disintegrating dragon before her and felt a rush of heat whip around her and soak into her skin and burn her throat. She stumbled, disoriented, and came down on her knees and cracked them against the rocky pathway.

 

“What the fuck just happened?” she shrieked. 

 

“By the gods,” one of the guards breathed as he and his partner gazed at her. 

“What?” she yelled, scrambling to right herself, and slipped on the loose gravel a few times before she got her footing. “What’s going on? And what happened to the body?”

 

“Didn’t you hear what he called you?”

 

She thought back, but she’d been a little busy trying to shoot him out of the goddamn sky to really pay attention to his conversational skills. He’d shouted something, but she hadn’t bothered to catch what he’d said.

 

“No, no I didn’t,” she snapped. “I was otherwise occupied,” she sneered at the men. 

 

“Haven’t you heard the tales?” 

 

“This is not the time for a lesson in fairytales,” she stressed, forcing the words through clenched teeth and aching jaw. “Just tell me what in Oblivion is going on.”

 

“There’s really only one way to know, for sure,” the other Nord told her. “Try to see if you can Shout.”

 

“I’m shouting right now!” she shrieked at them, and they laughed while she clenched her fists and took in two deep inhalations.

 

“There’s no ways she’s Dragonborn,” another said. “She’s a Breton. And a mage.”

 

“Yeah, what he said,” Gwyneira agreed. 

 

“We don’t need myths and legends right now,” Irileth cut in. “We just need to be able to kill dragons. And we did.” She turned to address Gwyneira. “You should report back to Jarl Balgruuf. He’ll want to know about this.”

 

“Aw, you wouldn’t understand, housecarl. You ain’t a Nord,” the first Nord said. 

 

“I’ve traveled all over Tamriel,” the dark elf protested. “I’ve seen all manner of strange things. But whether or not she,” the other woman gestured towards the Breton, “is Dragonborn or not isn’t the point. We have more important things to worry about.”

 

“Let’s at least find out. Come on,” the second man said and turned to the younger girl. “At least try to Shout. Like the dragons do.”

 

Gwyneira rolled her eyes and sighed. It wasn’t even like she spoke “dragon.” The only reason she even spoke Nordic was from growing up in Bruma. “Fine. But nothing’s going to happen.” She let her lids flutter shut and tried to think. Something kept tugging at her, niggling at the base of her skull. She recalled Bleak Falls Barrow and that strange wall she’d encountered. Something had happened there, she was sure of it. She’d felt the same rush then, weaker sure, a shadow of what she felt after killing the dragon and a tingle bubbled in her throat, a burning that persisted until she breathed in and ignited her vocal chords that escaped in a burst that sounded like “ _ FUS _ ” and knocked everyone in front of her back a good five feet. 

 

“She is the Dragonborn!” the first Nord crowed. 

 

Gwyneira just stood there with mouth hanging open and her hazel orbs the size of dinner plates. Then her face morphed into a scowl. “You have got to be kidding me!” she shrieked again, kicking the nearest rock to her and sending it flying and flung her bow to the ground. “I was just trying to get to High Rock,” she insisted and ran her hands through her hair. “Travelling alone, minding my own business, and now I’m here during your stupid civil war and with dragons and now this?” 

She let out another scream before laughing, shaking her head as she bent to retrieve her discarded bow. “My family’s cursed. It has to be. Someone, somewhere down the line, pissed off the wrong daedra and now we’re cursed.” She turned around and stomped towards Whiterun.

 

“Where are you going?” Irileth called out.

 

“Dragonsreach. I have to report to the Jarl, remember?” she snapped, whipping her gaze over to the dark elf.  

 

She nearly charged up the path, not bothering to even replace the bow around her, and as she approached the gate, she heard what she assumed was thunder as grey clouds had begun to roll in and they hung over the city like a shroud, and when it cracked, “DOVAHKIIN” rang out over the walls. 

 

Frost covered her veins, and she swallowed the ice that singed her raw throat. 

 

This wasn’t her problem, she thought. No one could make her do anything. As soon as she spoke to Jarl Balgruuf, she’d be trying to get onto the next caravan headed towards the Reach. Then she might be able to get over to High Rock and be done with this troublesome province. 

 

They could have their dragons and their civil war. Without her.

  
  


She marched up the pathway, through the town center and up the long stretch of stairs that led to Dragonsreach. She flung the doors open, startling the the maid and a couple guards, and strode up to the throne. Balgruuf jerked his attention away from his steward and another Nord and she glared, ignoring the other two men. 

 

“That dragon’s dead,” the brunette informed him. “It destroyed the watchtower, but it’s dead.”

 

He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Good, I knew I could count on Irileth.” Gwyneira opened her mouth but Balgruuf continued, “There must be more to it though. We heard something. Did something strange happen when the dragon died?” he interrogated.

 

She swallowed and shuffled back and forth between her feet. “There...I might have…” she sighed and buried her face in her hands. “I might have sort of...absorbed something...from the body. And then it disappeared,” she confessed. “I didn’t mean to,” she cried out and lifted her head from her palms. “It just kind of...happened.” She worried her cheek and scratched the back of her head, feeling her eyes sting. “The men called me something. Dragonborn. That’s ridiculous. I don’t know what’s going but you all need to leave me out of it,” she demanded, voice edged despite the way it quavered on the air. “Can you just...give me my payment and I’ll be on my way.”

 

Balgruuf’s expression turned stony and she took a step back. “It’s not just my men who think you’re Dragonborn. That call was from the Greybeards; apparently, they think you’re Dragonborn as well.”

 

“Well, then there’s been a mistake,” she said, wrapping her arms around her waist and clenching her jaw.

 

“The Greybeards don’t make mistakes,” the jarl told her.

 

“They did this time. Now, please, just...give me my payment and I’ll be out of your city and your hair.”

 

The Nord let out a long exhale and sat back on his throne. “You really should go travel to meet with them. If you really are the Dragonborn, and I’m not saying you are,” he stated when she opened her mouth, “but if you are, they can help you train your Thu’um.”

 

“What in Mara’s holy knickers are you talking about?” she asked, feeling the blood rush in her ears and her throat ache.

 

The other Nord stood, ruffled, and stated, “That thunder was the Greybeards girl, and you know it.” 

 

“I don’t know anything,” she bit out and squared her shoulders, staring him down. 

 

“This hasn’t happened in centuries! Not since Tiber Septim himself was summoned, when he was still Talos of Atmora!”

 

She went to shout back at him when the steward--Avenicci, she thought--came forwards and patted the larger man on his shoulder. “Come now, what does any of this Nord nonsense have to do with our young friend? There’s no evidence she’s this ‘Dragonborn,’” he said and Gwyneira nodded along to his words.

 

“Nord nonsense?” the larger man growled. “You puffed-up ignorant--” and the Breton took a step back, glancing between the three men, and she leaned away. “These are our sacred traditions!” the Nord continued, and Balgruuf finally took a stand.

 

“Now, go easy on Avenicci,” the jarl said, lips twitching as he looked towards his steward. 

 

“I meant no disrespect, of course,” the Imperial insisted. “It’s just...what do these Greybeards want with her?” he questioned, gesturing in her direction. 

 

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here, damn it,” she snapped. The three men turned their attention back to her and she shrank in and scuffed her boot along the floor.

 

Balgruuf nodded. “That’s their business and not ours, Avenicci,” he concluded. “But be that as it may, I suppose we can’t force you to do anything.”

 

“Damn right you can’t,” she grumbled, itching under their gazes.

 

“We can’t force you to do anything,” he repeated, “but allow me to not only compensate you for the service you performed for our city. Defeating a dragon is no small feat, and for a place that’s not your home? You’ve more than earned it. I would like to give you the title of Thane of Whiterun. As a show of my gratitude.”

 

She blanched. “Thane? Do I...do I have to do anything?”

 

He laughed this time and clapped her on the shoulder. “No, you don’t need to do anything. But while you’re here, you will have a housecarl to serve and protect you.”

 

“Look, I’ve done pretty well on my own. I don’t really need a babysitter. I’m sure they’re great but--”

 

“Let us do this for you,” Balgruuf interrupted. “It’s not the worst thing in the world that could happen to you.”

 

“No,” she simpered. “It’s not. Getting decapitated would have been. Though, that’s starting to look more and more like a fine holiday now.”

 

* * *

 

 

She sat in the Bannered Mare, glaring into her mead, refusing to do as the Jarl suggested and head to High Hrothgar. This wasn’t her problem. So what if she was Dragonborn? So what if he named her Thane of Whiterun? It didn’t have to mean anything. And she certainly didn’t need a babysitter, she thought as she remembered her housecarl--Lydia, apparently. She snorted over her drink. She was just going to rest here a couple nights, then head out with one of the Khajiit caravans that were leaving for Markarth. Then she’d hitch a ride over the pass into Jehanna and that would be that. And she’d never step foot inside of Skyrim again as long as she lived. 

 

“What’s got you so sullen?” the publican--Hulda, she had learned--asked while she wiped out a mug.

 

“Nothing,” Gwyneira grumbled. “Just got some things on my mind.”

The woman nodded. “Crazy times we live in, right? Dragons, civil war…”

 

The Breton scoffed and took a swig of her mead, feeling the burn crawl down her throat and wrap around her stomach. “No kidding.”

 

“All of that and we still have people trying to contact the Dark Brotherhood,” Hulda muttered.

 

Gwyneira’s head snapped up. “What?” she questioned. “The Dark Brotherhood? They’re still around?”

 

Hulda nodded, setting the mug down and leaning towards the girl. “Must be, if people are still praying to them.”

 

“Damn, like who? They’ve pretty much been eradicated in Cyrodiil.”

 

“Well, I’ve heard some talk--from merchants, you know--and there’s a boy over in Windhelm--Aventus Aretino--who people have been hearing pray to the Night Mother.”

 

Gwyneira frowned. “A child?” she mused and set her drink down, her spine tensing. 

 

“I know. It’s such a shame. To be that young and get in over your head like that. They say he’s been praying for days.”

 

“Wow.” Her gaze flitted to the bar surface and she wrung her hands in her lap. “Wow,” she repeated. “Anyone know why?”

 

“I guess he came back to his home after being shipped out to Riften--the orphanage--and when they went to take him back, the guards got so spooked that no one’s tried to enter again. That’s what I heard, anyway. I got a cousin in Riften, says she knows the orphanage, that the matron’s got the temper of a hagraven. Almost can’t blame the kid.”

 

Gwyneira rested her head on her hand propped up on the counter. That was the last thing anyone needed; to get involved with the Dark Brotherhood was foolish. But still…

 

A kid. An orphan.

 

She buried her head in her arms, listening to the crackle of the fire pit and the hum and laughter of the other patrons, and breathed in and out, the smoke and wood filling her lungs as her throat tightened and she sniffled. She pressed the backs of her wrists against her eyes, against the burn of the fire that spiced the air. 

 

“You alright there?” Hulda asked above her.

 

She nodded and savoured the cold drag of the bar against her cheek, the notes from the lute dancing along the surface of her skin and burying themselves in her hair, and she shuddered against the ice in her marrow. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated a little earlier this time, so I suppose I should say updates should be WITHIN two weeks of each other. I still do my best to catch my mistakes, but since I edit all of my own work, some are bound to slip through. I plan on doing a far more fine-toothed comb through once the story is complete. I rearranged a LOT in this chapter; I shaved about ten pages off of the rough draft, so....now it's much more manageable and makes more sense. I hope.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's read/commented/left kudos...it really does mean to world to me. I appreciate every one of you; it's really what keeps me going. 
> 
> And, if you want to keep up with this and other updates/projects you can follow me on my [Tumblr](https://silencebrulant.tumblr.com/)


	3. The First Branch, Chapter Two: Innocence

Wrapping her cloak tighter around her body, she shivered as the frigid gale bit into her flesh, ice stinging her, before she stepped through the city gates. For Kynareth’s sake, no wonder the place was called Windhelm, she thought. Why did she even come here? Because of some sad little orphan tale? She rolled her eyes. She was in the exact opposite direction of where she wanted to be and, again, this wasn’t really any of her business. 

 

Still.

 

The Dark Brotherhood. 

 

She’d only heard rumors regarding the death cult, since she’d been only a girl when they were last their most active, and her father was oddly silent on them, despite the research she knew he’d done on them, since they’d been discovered in Bravil near the family home. She imagined that knowledge must have scalded him. 

 

So lost in her musings, and her attempts to warm her numb hands, that she found herself standing in a cobblestone alleyway, the wind howling through the narrow passageway. Grey shrouded the cityscape and she huddled into herself, but her ears picked up the rapid ramblings of a boy nearby and she perked up, straining her ears.

 

“Then it’s true, what they’ve been saying,” she heard over the sharp whistle of air. “That Aventus is doing the Black Sacrament? Trying to summon the Dark Brotherhood?”

 

She supposed she’d found the right house, then. Lucky her.

 

Whoever the boy was with worked to deny the claims, and Gwyneira snorted, then covered her mouth and looked around, flushing. 

 

“Then I’ll just invite him out to play. He lives riiiiiight over here. I’ll just go up to the door and knock--”

 

“No, wait! Don’t--don’t do that. Yes, alright, it’s true.” She heard the woman sigh and Gwyneira furrowed her brow. “But his actions are only going to lead to his ruin; you don’t need to be around that. Now come along,” the boy’s companion told him.

 

As they began to leave, she moved back, deeper into the corner of the alley and watched until the two were out of sight before she made her own way to the door. Trying the knob, she felt it stutter as it caught on the lock. Concentrating, she felt heat flow out of her palm and into the door, the click of tumblers moving, and then the give of the handle. She stepped inside, dust and rotting meat assaulting her sinuses. She brought the sleeve hem of her robes up to her nose and mouth, but the odor penetrated even that. 

 

She stepped on the wooden planks, wincing at every creak they gave, and over the buzzing in her ears she could make out chanting drifting down the stairs. 

 

When she stepped into the upstairs room, she found out what that smell was.

 

A boy, maybe ten years old, repeatedly stabbed a human heart, surrounded by bones and nightshade. Sweat beaded on her forehead and her stomach protested.

 

“Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your child unto me--”

 

The floor under her whined when she shifted her weight, and he dropped his dagger and turned to her, eyes widened and his mouth shaking. Then, his whole face lit.

 

“You’re here! You’re actually here!” he cried, running up to her. “I knew you’d come. But it took so long...but I never gave up,” he told her. “I did everything I was supposed to, even--even the things with the body parts...but you’re here. Now you have to accept my contract!”

 

“Er, wait, kid,” she tried. “Let’s slow down. Why would you even be performing this anyway?”

 

“My mother, she--she died; I’m all alone now. And the jarl shipped me off to Honorhall Orphanage, in Riften. It’s run by Grelod the  _ Kind _ , but she isn’t kind at all!” he snarled and she felt herself jerk back. “She beats us, sometimes we’d only get one meal a day, if we were lucky, and then--then there was the Room.”

 

“The Room?” she inquired, cheeks and forehead hot and moths fluttering around in her skull and stomach. 

 

He looked down and scuffed his feet. “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

 

The Breton nodded, slowly, carefully, and breathed out. She knelt down and placed a hand on his shoulder. “What happened to your mother?”

 

She heard him sniffle. “She got sick, last winter, when the snows came. And she just never got any better. Then she went to sleep one night and never woke up.”

 

Gwyneira bit her lip against her burning eyes and blinked a few times before speaking. “You said the jarl made you go to Riften?”

 

“Yes. I didn’t want to go to Honorhall, I can take care of myself. It isn’t fair!”

 

“Isn’t there anyone else you could go to? Family members? Even distant ones?”

 

The boy shook his head, and rubbed his eyes with his fists. “I don’t know anything about my pa’s family. He died before I was born, and Mama didn’t have anyone, so I had to go to Honorhall. I didn’t have a choice. Grelod is horrible. To all of us. But she’d beat me the most. I hate her! I hate her!”

 

Gwyneira swallowed the weight that hung itself around her heart. 

 

“How--” her lids slid shut and let out a deep sigh, “how sure are you that you want this woman dead?”

 

He looked back up to her, dark eyes sharper than she felt any child’s should have been. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. Grelod is a monster. Anyone like Grelod doesn’t deserve to live one more day.”

She squeezed his shoulder and gave him a thin smile. “Just...just stay here, alright? Until you hear from me?”

 

He bobbed his head and she stood, stretching and wincing as she felt her knees pop. 

 

“Thank you! Thank you so much! I don’t know what I would have done had you not gotten here.”

 

“Don’t...you don’t need to thank me. Really.” She ran her hand over her brow and groaned. “I’ll be back in a few days,” she told him. “Don’t go anywhere. Just stay inside. I mean it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sneaking into the orphanage had been--worryingly--easy. She hugged herself against the wall in the foyer and strained her ears for any movement or sound. It was about noon, so people should be awake, she thought. She crept deeper into the room and saw a young woman at a cooking spit. 

 

“Oh, hey,” Gwyneira started. The woman jumped and dropped her wooden spoon and the other girl laughed. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

 

“What are you doing here?” the woman asked. “You really shouldn’t be here.” She frowned. “The children aren’t up for adoption right now. And it’s cruel to get their hopes up.”

 

“Oh, oh no, I’m not here to adopt anyone,” Gwyneira stammered. “I just--I know a boy who said he came from here. The Aretino boy?”

 

“Hush,” the woman said, and she scanned the room, wringing her hands in her apron. “Don’t let Grelod hear you say that. Since he--he left she’s been...far less patient with the other children.”

 

“Less patient?”

 

“I shouldn’t have said anything. Please just go. Grelod will be awake soon, and she can’t see anyone else here. She hates...visitors.”

 

“Uh huh,” the Breton murmured. “I’ll let you get back to what you were doing. Sorry to bother you.”

 

When the woman’s back was turned, she made to walk towards the foyer and then cast a spell to muffle her footsteps and changed direction, slipping through a side door. It led to a little garden and she found three children playing tag. 

 

A little blonde girl came to a stop upon seeing her. “Are you here to adopt one of us?” she asked, blue irises sparkling and smiling to reveal her teeth.

“Don’t be stupid, Runa,” one of the boys said. “Grelod won’t allow anyone to adopt us. Not since Aventus ran away.”

 

“Grelod won’t let you get adopted? Can she do that?” Gwyneira asked, rubbing her chin and frowning.

 

“I’m really afraid of Grelod,” Runa told her. “When Aventus escaped she was so mad. I got double the beatings that day. Grelod the Kind is the meanest person in all of Skyrim.”

 

The second boy nodded. “No person could be that cruel. I think she’s part hagraven.”

 

The first boy kicked the ground. “I ain’t afraid of that old hag. But,” he sighed and shrugged his shoulders, “I wish Constance was in charge. She treats us real good. Constance...sometimes she gives me little snacks. Which is nice since we only get one meal. Late, too.”

 

The two other children nodded, and she let herself see how haggard they looked, especially compared to the children in Whiterun. The clothing too big for them, almost gaunt faces and bruised eyesockets. Her throat tightened. “Hey, don’t be like that,” she tried. “You guys will get adopted. Soon too, I bet. Tons of adults would be glad to have you.”

 

Runa just shook her head. “We’ll never be allowed to leave. Not until we’re of age,” she sniffled, and one of the boys, the first one, the Nord, put a hand on her shoulder in a half-hug. 

 

“Thanks, lady,” the second boy said, “but I don’t think that’ll ever happen.”

 

Gwyneira flinched, and then scowled. “Just...don’t worry about it,” she stated.

  
  
  
  


She came back much later. Masser and Secunda had set for the night, and it was still some time before Magnus rose. Again, access to the orphanage was just a tad too easy for Gwyneira’s tastes and she moved towards what she hoped was Grelod’s bedroom. It was the only other room that appeared as a proper separate chamber. 

 

She pushed the door open, and a lone candle burned on the table across from the bed, illuminating the interior and her eyes roamed over to the old woman atop the bed. She padded over to the headmistress’ nightstand and rummaged through it, pausing when she heard an abrupt snore and the sheets rustled with movement. Holding her breath, she waiting until the woman had settled back in before resuming her snooping. She didn’t find much: a couple of septims, which she took, and a book. 

 

_ The Pig Children _ she read.

 

The Breton glared at the form on the bed and huffed. She went back to the door and made sure it was barred before she shook the old woman awake.

 

Instead of being terrified--like any decent person, she thought--Grelod snarled at her. “What the hell are you doing in here? Get out of my orphanage,” she demanded.

 

“Yeah, about that,” Gwyneira began, grabbing the thin shoulder of the other woman, “I don’t know what the  _ fuck _ your problem is, but if you don’t stop tormenting those children out there, I will come back and fuck,” she pushed the shoulder down, “you,” another push, “up.” And she released the old woman, who sat up, teeth bared.

“How dare you threaten me in my own home. Who do you think you are?”

 

“I’m here for Aventus Aretino.”

 

“Aretino?” Grelod questioned, sneering. “That little bastard. You tell him that I’m coming for him, and when I find him it will be the beating of his life.”

 

“Don’t fucking touch those kids, you old hag--”

 

“That Aretino whoreson will be  _ lucky _ if he only gets a beating--”

 

“Don’t you  _ fucking _ touch him,” Gwyneira forced out, “I swear on Mara, if you touch these kids again--

 

“You’ll what?” Grelod jeered. “What’ll you do, Breton trash? No one wants these children, they just pawn them off on me, and I’m just supposed to coddle them? Better they learn now how cruel the world is; I’m doing them a favor. If I see that Aretino boy you better believe that he’ll regret what he put me through--” 

 

The younger woman’s stomach somersaulted, sour acid scratching at her throat. The room seemed to recede from her, dark around the edges of her vision, and her tongue was a stone in her mouth. She gripped the old woman’s shoulder in one hand and her dagger in another, and she caught the brief moment of surprise on the old crone’s face as she brought her blade down on her, ripping into her chest and she thought she must have caught a lung because the rasp Grelod made grated and gurgled, and Gwyneira retched. She brought it down again, this time to her throat as Grelod began to slump over. 

 

Gwyneira panted, feeling the blood soak into her gloves and its warmth spread through the material. She wiped the blade on the bed sheets and backed away, opening the door and was stopped by the appearance of Runa. 

 

The two stared at each other--Runa, with her pilfered glass of milk, and Gwyneira, bloodied and disheveled--and stood still.

 

“It’s...not what it looks like?” the Breton tried.

 

Runa peered behind Gwyneira and her eyes brightened. “Is Grelod dead?” she exclaimed, setting the milk down and running up to the woman, hugging her around her hips. “Oh, just wait until the others hear about this!”

 

“Yeah, um, that’s great, but you can’t tell anyone it was me,” Gwyneira pleaded, keeping her hands away from Runa and her blonde hair. 

 

“Oh, I won’t say anything,” the little Nord assured as she pulled away. “I can’t believe Aventus did it. He got the Dark Brotherhood to kill old Grelod.” She stifled her laughter behind her hands, and Gwyneira felt her stomach twist and her mouth dry. The little girl bent down to pick up her milk and stared at it. “Kill one person and you can solve so many problems,” she mused, and turned her face to look back at the brunette, her eyes glimmering in the dim light of Grelod’s former bedchambers. “I wonder at the possibilities.”

 

“Maybe we keep that revelation to ourselves,” the Breton muttered. She opened her mouth again, but then shook her head and snapped it shut and hurried to the exit, with Runa waving to her. 

 

* * *

 

 

When Gwyneira stepped through the Aretino residence some days later, she heard footsteps running down the stairs. 

 

“You’re back!” Aventus cried. “Is Grelod--is she...well, you know?”

 

“Yeah, kid. You won’t have to worry about her.”

 

“Is Constance alright?”

 

“Is that the assistant?”

 

Aventus nodded and the Breton sighed.

 

“Yeah, kid, she’s fine. She’s sweet.” 

 

The little boy laughed and hugged her. She stumbled back a bit, but brought a hand to his hair and sighed. “Thank you! Thank you so much,” he enthused, tightening his hold around her hips.

 

“Where are you going to go? You--you can’t stay here alone,” she said, pulling herself out of his grasp..

 

He looked up at her and shrugged. “I guess I’ll go back to Honorhall. It’s bound to be much better now that Constance will be in charge.” Then, he wrinkled his nose and frowned. “I’ll, um, give them time to clean up the, you know, the mess.” Then he hopped back from the woman. “Wait! I have your reward.” He turned and darted back up the stairs before she could call out to him.

 

“That’s not really necessary…” she tried. 

 

He re-emerged with a large, silver plate, and handed it to her.

 

“What...what is this?”

 

“It’s a family heirloom. You can probably sell it for a lot. I don’t really have anything else. But you should have it. Thank you so much. I was kind of starting to miss my friends.” He gave her another hug that she gave a light squeeze in response to. “When I grow up,” he told her, “I’m going to be an assassin that way I can help lots of children, just like you.”

 

“That is the wrong lesson to have learned about this,” she mumbled. “You,” she sighed, “just take care of yourself, alright? Just...take care,” she said, extricating herself from him, and she ruffled the top of his head. “Stay out of trouble, kid.”

 

She took a look at Aventus, and gave him a little nod before heading back out into the frigid evening.

  
  
  
  


She lied awake in Candlehearth Hall, listening to the dull murmuring that floated down the hallway outside of her room and released a deep breath, the stiffness seeping out of her body, and she rolled over onto her stomach, burying her face into her pillow. She hugged it to her, strangling the soft material, and felt it grow damp under her cheek. She pressed her face against it, hard enough to see color, and rubbed the fabric over her eyes, scratching them dry and leaving the skin raw. 

 

* * *

 

 

Gwyneira didn’t stay long in Windhelm, and made sure she left early in the morning, before Masser and Secunda and even set, and she found herself wandering back to Whiterun on foot through the Pale. The snow and permafrost were, at last, beginning to dissipate, so she figured she must have been approaching Whiterun Hold.

 

She didn’t know why they just couldn’t use counties like Cyrodiil did. Skryim’s government and territories were just as confusing and strange as High Rock’s were. At least, from what she’d read. She missed Cyrodiil and it’s relative peace. Though, she thought with a squint, there was the matter of the Aldmeri Dominion and its delegates that seemed to have free passage through the province. Always watching and skulking about, especially in Bruma with their regular inspection of the Kynareth Chapel, presumably to ensure it did not slip back into Talos worship. She scoffed. Unlikely. Besides, if Talos had been a god, she reasoned, she’d doubt he’d let his worship fall into obscurity like it had. Or would have let his empire fall into the disarray it was currently. 

 

Whatever, not her business.

 

While she journeyed, the weather grew a bit warmer, and she found she could slip her cowl back down around her neck and let her hair breathe a bit in the open air. The breeze carried the scent of pine and grass, and the damp sensation it picked up from one of the rivers surrounding the area. Magnus slipped lower and lower in the sky, and she figured she had about four more hours of daylight before it settled behind the Reach. 

 

She could probably make it to Whiterun in two. 

 

Skyrim was so much more open than Cyrodiil: large swathes of flatlands and forests, icy tundra, although that last Gwyneira could have lived without; she had enough snow from Bruma, and the ice in Skyrim was far more bitter. Cyrodiil had less and less space between major cities with the villages and settlements that were cropping up all over the place, and even Bruma was growing, what with the recent Nord population boom, with families moving to Cyrodiil in large numbers. 

 

She sighed. That made more sense now that she knew a civil war was going on. 

 

The Breton noticed a farm coming up on her left-hand side, and on the road in front of it was a wagon that, from her vantage point, appeared stalled. As she happened upon it, she saw a slim man pacing back and forth in front of it, cursing and shouting, and dressed in what appeared to be a jester’s outfit. She might have laughed if it hadn’t been for the creeping cold that crawled along the back of her neck. 

 

“My mother, my poor mother! Unmoving. At rest, but too still!”

 

She winced, but walked towards him with her hands up, palms facing forward. “Hello, sir, um,” she then moved to scratch the back of her head, “is--is everything alright here?”

 

He turned to look at her with such force she took a step back and placed her hand on her belt, near her dagger’s sheath. 

 

“Poor Cicero is stuck. Can’t you see?” he waved behind him towards his cart, and she did see that the wheel had snapped on the road, leaving it jagged and useless. “I was transporting my dear, sweet mother. Well,” he paused, rubbing his chin, “not her. Her corpse! She’s quite dead.” The girl nodded, slowly, and glanced around them, worrying her lip. “I’m taking mother to a new home. A new crypt, but damndest wagon wheel!” he ran his hands through his hair, gripping it and pulling tight.

 

She took another couple steps back, keeping her gaze on him and his movements, and she swallowed before she spoke again. “Is there anything I can do to help? To get you on your way?” 

 

Really. Anything.

 

He started towards her and she flinched, but he smiled and went to grab her hand, and he held it fast. “Oh yes, oh yes you can certainly help! Go to the farm, the Loreius farm, just over there,” he pointed to the farmhouse she had seen earlier, “Talk to Loreius. He has tools, and he can help me but he won’t.”

 

She chose to keep why that might be to herself.

 

“Convince Loreius to fix my wheel, and I’ll be on my way! Ooh, and I’ll pay you if you do. Shiny coin!” His grasp on her hand tightened and she felt the bones in her palm rub and grind on each other and she went to pull her hand away but he held. 

 

She felt sick.

 

“You’re hurting me,” she told him, not quite suppressing the tremor her voice held, and, to his credit, he did loosen his grasp. 

 

He patted the top of her hand. “Cicero is sorry. Cicero is just upset. Please help poor Cicero?”

 

“Um, sure, I’ll just...go up there and--and talk to Loreius for you. I’ll see what I can do.”

 

She turned before he had a chance to respond, bolting up the road towards the farmhouse. She rapped on the door several times, until a balding Imperial answered the door. 

 

He frowned and stood back with his arms crossed. “For the love of Mara, what now?” he snapped. 

 

“Look, I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s someone down there that needs your help with his wagon. He seemed pretty upset.”

 

The Imperial glowered. “I know, the little man has asked about five times. Seems he won’t take my answer.” He pushed away from the door, but moved no farther, and kept Gwyneira perched outside. “Why can’t he just leave us alone? He’s upsetting my wife, and he’s spooking the livestock.”

 

The Breton nodded. “Yeah, I can see why that’d be,” she mumbled. “But I’m sure if you fixed his wheel he’d be on his way. Then you’d never have to see him again.” She sighed. “ _ I’d _ never have to see him again.”

 

Loreius scowled. “He’s completely out of his mind. And he’s transporting some giant box. Says it’s a coffin and he’s burying his mother.” He snorted. “Mother my eye. He could have anything in there. I’m not getting involved.”

 

“If that’s the case...why don’t you just fix his wheel and be done with him? He doesn’t seem to be the most...stable person I’ve ever met. Might be best to keep him calm,” she mentioned, glancing behind her to see him wave back. She flashed a quick smile, a grimace, and turned back to the man before her.

 

“And that’s the case you’re making to get me to help him?” the Imperial questioned, raising an eyebrow.

 

“I know, it’s not the most convincing,” she admitted. “But it seems...safer? Just to get him out of your hair.”

 

Loreius slumped, his arms unfolding and he rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose you have a point,” he conceded. He groaned and straightened. “Go ahead and tell Cicero I’ll be down in a bit with my tools.”

 

“If you want, I can stay until you’re done with the repairs,” she offered, glancing down the road to the jester. 

 

“No, I’m sure it’ll be fine. It’ll be a quick job. I’m sure you have places to be.”

 

She scoffed but didn’t say anything else.  “I mean, if you’re sure…”

 

“Yeah, yeah, it’ll be fine. Besides, there’s a guard that patrols this route frequently.”

 

Gwyneira nodded and headed back to Cicero. “Loreius will be down to fix your wheel.”

 

“Oh, thank you, thank you! Cicero thanks you, so jubilant and ecstatic. But more! Mother thanks you.” He reached into his purse and pressed a few septims into her hand. “And here, for your trouble. Shiny, clinky gold!”

 

She stepped back. “Well, alright, I have to get going now…”

 

“I will wait for Loreius. Thank you, thank you!”

 

She ran from the wagon, and didn’t stop until she had gotten to the gates of Whiterun. She heaved before the doors, hunched over and panting, taking in huge gulps of air, and pain pierced her sides. 

 

“You doing alright?” one of the guards asked her.

 

“Yeah,” she panted. “Just--just catching my breath.”

 

…

 

“Back again?” Hulda asked when the Breton flopped down on a barstool and ordered a stein of ale. 

 

She huffed and nodded once, resting her face in her hand. “It’s been a weird few days,” she mumbled. 

 

“I thought you’d be long gone by now.”

 

“Yeah, so did I. Got held up, I guess. Not much I can do about it.”

 

“Where’d you go anyway? Thought you were heading to High Rock.”

 

Gwyneira coughed and looked away. “I wound up heading over to Windhelm.”

 

Hulda stared for a moment at the girl, eyes narrowed, and then shook her head. “And what did you find there?”

 

“That it’s bloody cold over there. Who in their right mind would live there?”

 

Hulda let out a laugh. “Aye, it is that. If you think they’re cold though, don’t go to Winterhold.”

 

The Breton scoffed. “I bet. Bruma’s not even that cold.”

 

“Is that where you’re from?” the publican asked.   
  


She nodded. “My father moved there before the War broke out, and that’s where he met my mother. It’s nice,” she stated, and took a long drink of her ale. “When he talked about it, he said it was getting too dangerous in Bravil. Which, I suppose it was since that’s where the Aldmeri went during the Great War.” Gwyneira shrugged, and let out a sigh. “I think that always bothered my father.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“His family had been in Bravil, or near Bravil, since the end of the third era. He was always bitter about having to leave the family home. Such as it was.” 

 

Hulda began to polish the mugs behind the bar, humming. “It’s hard to leave something like that.”

 

The Breton huffed. “Yeah, he never let it go.” She drained the rest of her ale and slid the cup over to the Nord. “Don’t listen to me. I’m just in a bad mood. You think I can rent a room for the night?”

 

“Of course. I still have one available. Fewer people traveling with the Imperials and Stormcloaks at each other’s throats.”

 

“I’m sure. Here,” she said, pushing a few coins over to the woman. 

 

“It’s the one up the stairs. Same one as before.”

 

“That one doesn’t get rented out often, does it?”

 

Hulda laughed and pocketed the coins before she resumed tidying the bar, and Gwyneira turned around to face the fire pit, letting the heat wash over her still-frigid form, feeling her muscles loosen, and she exhaled. She glanced out on of the front windows and saw the failing light in the town and she let out a yawn behind her hand and turned her head towards the stairs that led up to the second story. Stretching, she got off of her stool and placed a couple more septims on the counter for Hulda, and made her way up to her bedroom, where she collapsed onto the bed and fell into nothingness.

 

* * *

 

She double checked her pack one more time as she stepped outside of the inn and into the crisp morning. The sky turned pink and coral, and blue began to peek through as the sun climbed up the eastern mountains. The Breton trudged to the gate, looking at the ground, watching her feet crunch against the gravel and stone that dotted the pathway when she felt the wind get knocked out of her and heard a sharp, “I’m so sorry!”

 

She glanced up, steadying herself, and frowned at the Imperial she had run into. “It’s fine. I probably should have been watching where I was going. I’m distracted; sorry,” she mumbled, rubbing her chest. 

 

“Are you Gwyneira?” he asked.

 

“Uh, yes,” she stammered, taking a half-step back. “Who are you?”

 

“I have a letter for you,” he told her as he rummaged around in his satchel. “Here.” He handed her a sealed piece of parchment. 

 

Vellum, she noted, running her fingers over it. “Who’s it from?” she asked. “No one I know would know that I’m here.”

 

“They didn’t say,” he shrugged, “scary guy though. Couldn’t see his face.” He gave her a small smile before turning away. “I gotta go now. More deliveries. Guess I’m lucky I caught you before you left.”

 

She stared after him before turning her eyes back to the note in her hands. She fumbled with the wax seal a few times before dislodging it, letting the letter fall open in her hands. The only thing she saw as a black handprint and the words “We Know” scrawled beneath it. 

 

She furrowed her brow and shoved it into her bag and lifted her head to scan the empty streets and she crossed her arms in front of her, huddling against the cold she found seeping into her robes. Something tugged at her stomach, and she felt it twist around itself and her chest tightened, lungs strangling her heart. 

 

Gwyneira shook her head, took a breath, and headed out to the carriage. If she hurried, she could probably get him to take her to Markarth, then she could get out of this frozen garbage heap. 

 

 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everyone for the kudos and comments. They are, quite literally, the highlight of my day. Again, I apologise for any errors in here; I edit myself and I miss things. Like all the time. I hate it. I don't know how I feel about this chapter, but I don't think I was ever going to be happy with it, so here it is xD 
> 
> If anyone wants, feel free to keep up with me on tumblr; I love making new friends, and I post updates there too.


	4. The First Branch, Chapter Three: The Sprouting of Moss

The Breton blinked her eyes open, trying to clear the haze that still lingered around her, and breathed through the ache that pulsed behind her eyes. Floorboards groaned under her weight as she shifted, and dust floated around her as she inhaled, the musty scent clogging her throat and lungs. She sat up and rubbed her temples, her stomach protesting the change in position, and she heard a woman’s smooth, cool voice break the silence.

 

“Sleep well?”

 

Her vision clearing, she saw the owner of said voice perched atop a broken armoire, her face obscured by a cowl. 

 

“And who in Oblivion are you? And where am I?” Gwyneira snapped, frigid fingers wrapping around her heart and pulling the fluttering organ to her bowels. The last thing she remembered was checking into the Silver-Blood inn after she arrived in Markarth, determined to get a decent night’s rest before she continued her trip through the Druadach Mountains and then into High Rock. The trip should’ve only taken a couple days; the border wasn’t too far from Markarth. 

 

“Does it matter?” the masked woman queried. “You’re warm, dry, and still very much alive.” She laughed. “Which is more than I can say for old Grelod.”

 

Gwyneira froze. “You know about that?” she asked, her voice quiet, and the thrum of her blood hastened, rushing to the chasm in her chest and filling her lungs.

 

“Half of Skyrim knows about it. Old woman gets butchered in her own orphanage. That sort of thing gets around.” The woman shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong; I’m not criticizing. It was a good kill. Old crone had it coming. And you saved a few urchins to boot.” The blond tittered and hugged her knee closer to her chest, and then turned her sharp gaze back to Gwyneira. “But that’s where you and I have a problem.”

 

The Breton glared and crossed her arms. “Do we now?” she questioned.

 

“That little Aretino boy, he was asking for the Dark Brotherhood, and you took that kill from us.”

 

“Maybe you should have been a little more expedient, then.”

 

She heard the woman laugh again. “Perhaps we should have been. But still, that doesn’t solve our problem now. Now… you need to pay us back.”

 

“Pay you back?” Her throat bobbed. “The kid gave me a plate.”

 

“Not that kind of repayment,” the woman said, and the Breton saw her roll her green eyes. “If you look behind you…” she twirled her finger towards the ground and Gwyneira turned around and saw three figures, bound and hooded, kneeling across the room. 

 

It looked like two men and a woman, and she whipped her head back around to the mystery woman and shouted. “What the fuck, lady?”

 

She heard the woman sniff. “I’ve...collected them from...well, that’s not really important, is it? The point is, one of them has a contract out on them. You have to pick which one you think it is and kill them.”

 

“Excuse me, I have to what?”

 

“You have to kill one of them. The one that has the contract on them.”

 

“How am I supposed to know that?” she exclaimed as acid bubbled in her stomach. “And what the fuck is wrong with you?”

 

“You better make your choice soon; it’s the only way to get out of here,” the woman stated. 

 

Gwyneira turned around again to face the captives, letting her eyes skirt over each of the figures, and she heard the woman comment behind her: “Why don’t you talk to them?” 

 

The Breton narrowed her eyes but walked over to them away, containing the way her hands fought to remain steady and how her breath wanted to explode from her constricting lungs. As she approached them, their voices clamored around her, clogging her ears and filling her head with smoke and fog, her face burned and she ran her hands over her eyes as their voices grew louder and louder, one sticking out over the others. 

 

“I don’t have time for this nonsense,” the bound woman shrieked, breaking through the fever that clung to the Breton. “Let me out of here; I have a home to keep and children to feed.”

 

Gwyneira looked at her, frowning, and rubbed her face as she exhaled through her nose. “You,” she called, to the kneeling woman. “Would someone pay to have you killed?” the Breton asked.

 

“What kind of question is that?” she snapped. 

 

“Just tell me what I need to know, okay?”

 

“I’m a woman with six children and no husband living in Skyrim. I don’t have time or patience to be nice. It’s…possible I’ve made some enemies,” she admitted. 

 

Gwyneira nodded, keeping her mouth shut and walked over to the remaining two captives. “What about you?” she asked the Khajiit after receiving nothing but a blubbered plea from the larger man. 

 

He snorted, audible even through the shroud. “Are you serious?” he asked. “I would be insulted if they did not.” 

 

She raised her brows and frowned. “Why? Who are you?”

 

“Vasha,” he told her. “Thief, murdered, and defiler-of-daughters. If a day passes without someone trying to gut me on the street, I get disappointed. But come now, surely we can work something out between us. What is a life and death situation if not mutually beneficial?”

 

She glanced back up toward her own captor, to see her laughing eyes peering over the mask and she bit her lip, feeling the sting as it punctured the flesh there. 

 

How did she even get herself in this situation?

 

She should have just stayed in Bruma. Settle down with a nice local Nord and take in some Ataxia orphans and visit her father once in awhile. Maybe with Gundahar Sigurdsson; he’d been looking pretty good after coming back from his term in the Legion and had followed her around like a puppy in their adolescence. Gwyneira shook her head.

 

“Have you decided yet?”

 

How was she supposed to decide? One was a harpy, another might have been a mercenary, and promiscuous thief and killer. They probably all had someone who wanted to kill them. She glanced back to the bound Khajiit and made her decision. 

 

She pulled her dagger out and slit his throat, and heard her captor laugh. A deep, full throated laugh that echoed in the room. 

 

“What’s going on?” the mercenary shouted, with an edge to his voice.

 

“Our guest decided,” the other woman laughed. 

 

“So?” Gwyneira asked, high-pitched and brittle, the sound of it splintering over the relative quiet of the cabin. “Did I get it right? Was it him? It had to be,” she insisted. ”

 

The masked woman hummed. “Tell me, how did you come to your conclusion? I’m curious.”

 

“It--it had to be regular thing for him. He said it himself,” she muttered. “Now tell me if I was right and let me go home.”

 

“Someone must have wanted him dead, right?”

 

Gwyneira frowned at the other woman’s tone. “Excuse me?”she asked, hands going limp at her sides and fingers tingling as she dropped her dagger. 

 

“The point is, dear, that I told you to kill someone and you did it.”

 

“But you said--”

 

“And I’m honoring that. You’re free to go. I would, however, like to extend an...invitation, of sorts, to you.”

 

“Just let me go. Let me out right now,” Gwyneira’s voice rose and she balled her hands into fists and sniffled. Her eyes stung and she blinked it away, the lids dragging against the orbs like sandpaper. “I want to go home.”

 

“Hear me out,” the woman said. “I’d like for you to join our Family. You would be welcome with open arms. You don’t seem like the type of person to have a lot of ties. You could find your place with us. We take care of our own.”

 

“Go fuck yourself, you bitch,” she stated. 

 

The woman only chuckled. “You’re feisty. I like that. Consider what I say.” She hopped down off of the armoire and gestured for the younger woman to come to her. She held out the key, and Gwyneira snatched it with nimble fingers. “In the Pine Forest, near Falkreath, you’ll find our home. It’s just beneath the road,” she told the Breton. “The passphrase is ‘Silence, my brother.’ I do hope to see you soon.”

 

Gwyneira looked at the woman one last time, glaring, and then glanced back down to the key she had grabbed and turned towards the door.

 

“Besides,” she heard the woman’s smooth voice ring out behind her, “Where else do you really have to go? You’ve killed two people in cold blood. What exactly do you think you’ll do now? I think we both know that, despite what you claim, you don’t really have anywhere else to go, now do you?”

 

The Breton swallowed the bile that continued to climb up her esophagus and walked through the door and into the early grey dawn before slamming it shut behind her. She walked a few feet out, boots crunching on the frost and snow as she gazed over water covered in ice caps before coming to a stop at a patch of tundra grass. 

 

She turned her face down and bent over and heaved, vomiting on her boots and the snow, staining the ice with the wine she had drank the night before. 

 

* * *

 

  
  


It had been some days since her encounter with the assassin in that shack in--as she found out later--Hjaalmarch, and Gwyneira found herself along the road and passing Rorikstead. The people there had told her that she was on the most direct path to Falkreath. To the Pine Forest. The trip had been uneventful, beyond the odd bandit or highwayman, and the biting cold wind that wound through her clothing and dug into her marrow. Magnus drifted over the horizon as she walked deeper into the forest, the sky turning orange and violet, cold light filtering through the trees and it made its retreat behind the mountains, shadows flickering on the ground. 

 

In the distance, she spied a small copse, trees gathered closer than the surrounding forest, and a shadowed nook in what appeared to be a mound within the trees. As she approached, she saw that the mound was, in fact, a cave with a large door bearing a black palm within a skull. She stood in front of it, gazing into the empty sockets of the skull’s eyes, when a voice whispered in her ear: 

 

“What is the music of night?”

 

She frowned, recalling the woman’s parting words to her from nearly a week ago. She licked her lips and looked up at the glowing palm print. 

 

“Silence, my brother.”

 

And the door swung open, revealing a stone, moss covered hallway that led into an open room, and an attractive blonde woman leaning against a door frame. 

 

“You made it,” she greeted, a smile on her face. “I hope you found the place alright.” Her familiar voice dripping with honey.

 

Gwyneira nodded, wrapping her arms around herself. “What,” she tried, “what happens now? Now that I’m here, I mean.” She shifted from side to side, scuffing the ground with whichever foot wasn’t supporting her weight. 

 

The blonde raised her eyebrows, creasing her forehead. “Now?” she asked. “Now your new life begins. You’re part of the family after all.” She smirked at the Breton, gesturing down the stairs. “You might as well get settled in. The Sanctuary is your home now.”

 

“I never caught your name,” the younger woman said, squinting.

 

The assassin laughed. “It’s Astrid.”

 

The Breton nodded and let out a deep exhale. “I’m--well, I’m Gwyneira. Though, I guess you probably know that,” she mumbled. 

 

“I did,” Astrid acknowledged. “But that’s only from around town. There isn’t really much information about you here.”

 

She shrugged. “There wouldn’t be. I’m from Cyrodiil.”

 

“And you decided to come to Skyrim? Now?”

 

“Yeah,” she huffed, her lips pulled into a grimace, and she shook her head. “It wasn’t great timing.” She rubbed her hands together. “I was on my way to High Rock. And would have made it there, too, if you hadn’t snatched me from Markarth in the middle of the night,” she accused. 

 

“I guess you’ll be more expedient next time, won’t you?”

 

Gwyneira’s set her jaw and her lips grew pale as they tightened.

 

“Come on, I’ll show you around, get you introduced to everybody.”

 

Astrid led Gwyneira down the dampened hallway, towards what appeared to be main living area, with hanging moss and fungi sprouting over the walls and cracks in the floor where large patches of dirt had taken over. 

 

“So,” Astrid started, “you’re a long way from Cyrodiil now. What made you want to go to High Rock.”

 

Gwyneira mumbled. “Just family things.”

 

“Running?”

 

The Breton scowled. “No, not running. More like...looking, I guess. Family’s important to my father,” she admitted. “Family legacy, things like that. He’s been fixated on that stuff since I was a girl.”

 

“And what, you thought you would find something worthwhile in High Rock?”

 

“That’s where we began, according to father. Jehanna. A long time ago.”

 

Astrid hummed. “Not a great place to be from, right now, not with all of the Forsworn roaming the Reaches. What’s your family name?”

 

Gwyneira groaned, scratching the back of her neck, and let out a long huff. “Fine, it’s Sauveterre. Yes, that Sauveterre. The Champion of Cyrodiil and right hand of Martin Septim. Whatever.”

 

Astrid raised a brow, buy smirked at the other woman. “Interesting. I thought that name sounded familiar. I was just wondering because your forename is...unusual.”

 

“Yeah, I know. That’s dear old father’s fault. Thought it’d be a good idea for some reason.”

 

The Nord laughed. “I suppose that answers where I might have heard that name then. I’ll get back to you on that.”

 

“Wait, what? Why?”

 

“Don’t worry about it. And make yourself at home. Don’t let Arnbjorn push you around too much. But play nice; he’s still my husband.” They stopped as they entered a dining hall, and Gwyneira’s gaze fell on a Redguard who glanced over at her and scoffed. She felt her hackles go up while Astrid released another silvery laugh. “This is Nazir, sister. He can help you get settled in further. I’m finalizing a contract right now, and there are some other...matters I have to square away.”

 

“Other matters?”

 

The Redguard interjected with his deep voice reverberating in the cavernous room. “No need to concern yourself with those, yet, sister.” He stood up from where he was seated and Astrid made her way back out to the hall. 

 

She looked at the Redguard and felt herself flush. “So, you work here long?”

 

“Long enough,” he acknowledged. “Long enough to know to keep smart remarks to myself.”

 

She nodded, once, her head snapping up and down. “Perfect. Wonderful. How fitting,” she mumbled. 

 

“Do you have something to say?”

 

Her shoulders slumped and muttered a “no” and turned away. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I’m...it’s been a weird month.”

 

Nazir glared at the woman, then sighed. “Why don’t you just wander around awhile and get to know the place. You’ll have work to do soon enough, and I don’t feel like babysitting.”

 

She bristled but agreed with him, and made her way up the stairs after saying goodbye to the Redguard, receiving only a scoff for her trouble. She rolled her eyes as she walked through the hallways, trailing her hand along the walls, fingers slipping on soft moss and her footsteps echoed off of the walls, the sound bouncing in her ears. The air of the sanctuary was damp and the Breton felt it soak into her clothes and bite at her skin. As she continued on, she heard several voices laughing and speaking and she followed them to what she assumed was the main room. She made a note to pay attention where she walked, as the halls twisted and one could easily become disoriented in the place. 

 

As she rounded the corner, a little girl approached her. Gwyneira stopped short and let out a gasp. The girl ran up to her and clutched the hem of the woman’s shirt.

 

“Please,” she cried, tears swimming in her eyes and her cheeks flushed and splotched, “you have to help me! The Dark Brotherhood murdered my parents and are keeping me here!”

 

Before Gwyneira could say anything, she heard laughter from behind the little girl, drawing her attention away, and saw two men: a rather large Nord and an Argonian, their shoulders shaking in their amusement. She began to move in front of the girl when she noticed the girl smiling.

 

At her expression, the girl laughed. “Rather convincing, isn’t it?” She took the Breton’s hand and patted the top of it, and Gwyneira shivered at the touch of the girl’s palm. 

 

Gwyneira frowned and her gaze darted around the room, on the girl, the men, the floor, and back again. She opened her mouth, but the breath was caught in her throat. “I--” she coughed “--what’s going on?”

 

“I’m no more a little girl than you are,” she sighed. “I was once, of course. Vampirism tends to keep one...rather fresh. Don’t let my appearance fool you. I’m far older than you.”

 

Gwyneira stared at the girl, taking in her appearance, her face, and she caught the details she hadn’t noticed before: the darkened eyes, the hint of fang, and the rosy cheeks had drained and left a ghastly pallor in their wake. 

 

The Argonian stepped up, still laughing. “Don’t mind Babette,” he told her. “It’s a game she likes to play with all of the new members.” Gwyneira just nodded, still staring at the girl. Woman. Another laugh. “I’m Veezara, and this is Arnbjorn.”

 

The Nord, Arnbjorn, grunted a greeting before saying, “Oh, right, you’re the one my lovely wife was talking about. Heard she pulled the old “pick the victim with the contract and you can go” trick on you.” He chuckled. “That one never gets old.”

 

Gwyneira disagreed, but thought it prudent to keep that to herself.

 

“Ah, Arnbjorn,” Babette chimed in, “I don’t think she’s as appreciative of the game as you are,” she laughed. “It’s okay,” the vampire told Gwyneira. “You’ll just need to get settled in. It can be...overwhelming for some.”

 

“Right. That’s a word for it.”

 

Arnbjorn scoffed. “Better toughen up that stomach, tidbit. We’ve no use for a squeamish assassin.”

 

“I’m plenty tough,” she snapped. “I’ve faced a dragon, twice, and survived both times. You?”

 

Veezara and Babette both laughed, and Arnbjorn waved them off. “Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled before heading off, but not before telling Gwyneira, “Astrid trusts you, so I do. Make sure it stays that way.”

 

“Don’t take it personally, sister,” Veezara said when the Nord left. “He’s always like that. I’d say he warms up to you with time, but I don’t think it’s best to start a relationship up with a lie.”

 

Despite herself, Gwyneira felt a giggle escape from her mouth. “So there’s no hope for me with that one then?” She looked after where Arnbjorn left and sighed. “What’s up with him, anyway?”

 

Veezara smirked. “What do you mean?” 

 

The torchlight shone off his scales, and she watched the flicker of verdant flames dance across his skin, and she coughed before she shrugged and glanced back down to Babette. “Something just seems...off. I can usually sense those sorts of things. A bit, at least.” She cut herself and and frowned. “Of course, there are exceptions.” Babette just grinned up at her. 

 

“Looking like a child has its advantages,” the small Breton stated. 

 

“I’m sure it does,” Gwyneira said, under her breath, before she bit her tongue. Veezara gave her a smile and she felt her cheeks warm. 

 

“We should leave you to get settled. In case no one’s bothered to tell you, sleeping quarters are down that hall,” he pointed to a doorway off to the right of her, “and you can pretty much just take any bed. Most of us sleep where we land. Though, I have a strong preference for sleeping near the hearth.”

 

“I’ll be sure to not take that bed, then,” she stated, her lips curved. “I suppose I’ll just...check it out, drop my stuff off,” she stammered and then turned to head down the corridor that he had indicated. 

 

The communal bedroom was cozy. Out of place in a location such as this, she thought. True, the stone and moss and humid atmosphere still prevailed, but the linens appeared clean and well-cared for, with a cheery little fire that blazed in the hearth and even a couple of throw rugs dotting the floor. 

 

She placed her rucksack on a bed and settled into a chair in front of the fireplace, letting the orange light shine on her skin. Shadows danced over the floor and she leaned back, letting her eyes drift shut, and she listened to the rushing of the small waterfall she’d spied and the whine of the light breeze that blew through the caverns and the crackle of popping embers as they pricked at her ears.

  
  


 

 

“Sister,” a small voice echoed in the stone room. Gwyneira’s lid fluttered open and she turned to the entrance and saw Babette peeking around a corner at her. 

 

“Oh, what is it?” she asked her, averting her gaze from the older Breton’s black gaze. Her small form slipped into the room and sat across from Gwyneira. 

 

Babette propped her chin in her hands and stared at her. “I heard from Astrid that your last name was Sauveterre, right?”

 

Gwyneira heaved a sigh, but Babette continued before the younger woman could get a word in. “I knew a Sauveterre, back in High Rock.”

 

Her forehead twitched. “You did?”

 

Babette nodded. “A long time ago. Sometime in the third era. Not the Champion of Cyrodiil,” she clarified, “but they must have been a relative. Someone in Wayrest.” The vampire tapped her index finger to her chin, humming. “That’s right,” she burst. “He ran an alchemical shop. Good stock. I’d purchase from him when my stores were running low. He always had a steady supply of the more rare ingredients. Handsome too. If he hadn’t been married and I’d had a different body--”

 

“Okay, I think that’s enough,” Gwyneira pleaded, only to hear Babette laugh. At her. The younger scowled. 

 

“But it’s true. About the shop, I mean. If memory serves, there were a few Sauveterres in Wayrest.”

 

“My father said they’re from Jehanna.”

 

“The Champion of Cyrodiil was from Jehanna.” Babette tilted her head to the side and chuckled. “They’re probably cousins or something.” Then she looked at the girl and grinned. “You know,” she sang, “that’s not the only place I heard the name.”

 

Gwyneira creased her forehead. “What do you mean?”

 

“It showed up in Cyrodiil too, as you’re aware.”

 

“You just said you never met the Champion.”

 

“I didn’t. I was still in High Rock during the Oblivion Crisis. But the name crops up in some very interesting places. Tell me,” Babette leaned forward, “how much you know about the Champion--what was her name? It’s been such a long time.”

 

“Felicienne,” Gwyneira answered, her voice slow and hesitant. Her spine quivered when the little vampire smirked. 

 

“Right, Felicienne, that was it.” Babette settled herself back into her seat, and Gwyneira huffed.

 

“You must have wanted to tell me something,” she said. “What is it?”

 

Babette hummed. “You’ll find out. Why ruin the surprise?”

 

“Surprise?”

 

The vampire just let a smile spread across her lips as she turned her face towards the fire. “Family’s a funny thing, isn’t it?” she asked. 

 

“I suppose,” Gwyneira tried, cotton stuffing her throat. “It’s really only my father and I back in Bruma, so I don’t think I’d really know.”

 

Babette hummed. “It’s getting late for your kind; you should get some rest while you can. It won’t be too long before you have work to do.”

 

The vampire hopped down out of her seat and began to leave.

 

“Er, where are you going? If you don’t mind me asking,” Gwyneira stammered.

 

“Just to get something to eat,” she grinned. 

 

Gwyneira nodded, frowning, with widened eyes that looked to the ground. She let out a breath the sounded too loud in the still room.

 

* * *

  
  


The Breton woke the next morning to sharp voices ringing through the stone sanctuary. She couldn’t have been asleep for more than a few hours, and she grumbled, pressing her face against her pillow, before she dragged herself out of the warmth of the bed, threw on a change of clothes, and padded down the hallway towards the large main chamber. 

 

Astrid, with Arnbjorn stood in the middle of the room talking to a man she didn’t recognize from the night before. Veezara, Babette, and Nazir were standing around, and two others whom Gwyneira hadn’t met yet: an old man and a dark elf. She listened for a moment and saw Arnbjorn take a step towards the smaller man. The same man turned slightly and Gwyneira felt a ball of ice weigh her stomach down and frost line here throat. The slim jester turned to face her and his expression brightened.

 

“You? Oh, friendly stranger from Loreius’ farm. Cicero always remembers those who’ve helped him. So sweet, so kind,” he cooed, moving towards her. “Cicero will never forget the kindness you’ve shown to him. Or to our Mother.” He reached out to grab her hand Gwyneira jumped.

 

“Alright, that’s enough out of you,” Arnbjorn growled when Gwyneira took a small step back from the room. 

 

She knew that helping that little dancing jester on the road would come back and bite her in the ass. 

 

“Yes, yes it is,” Astrid stated as her voice grew louder. “Of course we are more than happy to receive both you and the Night Mother, Keeper, we were just...taken off guard by your presence. We’ll have a room prepared for you. Until then, you can place your things in the dorms. She then turned to Gwyneira. “I wanted to talk to you anyway,” the Nord woman said. 

 

The Breton edged around the room until she reached Astrid, keeping an eye on the Imperial who continued to bounce on the balls of his feet and stifled his laughter. She glanced back up at Astrid whose face was pinched and colourless. Gwyneira furrowed her brows and let out a sigh, glancing down the hall towards the exit. 

 

She wondered if it was already too late to tell them that she changed her mind. 

 

“There is a contract for you,” Astrid went on as the other family members dispersed, the older two members helping Cicero with his belongings while Arnbjorn growled to himself. Veezara shot a wink at Gwyneira and she looked away, face tingling and Astrid raised a fine brow, but said nothing until the Breton held her gaze again. “As I was saying,” she stated, watching Veezara trail out of the room, “there’s a contract for you. In Markarth, actually.”

 

Gwyneira nodded, brows creased and the corners of her mouth turned down, and she let out a breath through her nose, wrapping her arms around herself. She thought to point out that she had just been in Markarth before Astrid kidnapped her, but decided that might not be the wisest course of action, given the circumstances she found herself in. Especially on a morning where everyone seemed to be on edge. 

 

The Nord peered at Gwyneira for a couple beats, then relaxed her shoulders. “Good,” she said. “You’re to meet up with a woman named Muiri. She works at the local alchemy shop in the city--The Hag’s Cure, you can’t miss it--and has been quite eager to make our acquaintance. This is your first real job with us, so I’ll let you keep the entire payment if you complete it,” the blonde told her. “I think you know the way,” she ventured, laughing at Gwyneira’s scowl. 

 

The Breton nodded and folded her hands. “Is there anything else I should know?”

 

Astrid shook her head, smile still settled along her lips, and Gwyneira pursed her lips and turned on her heel, making her way back down the corridor to the sleeping quarters. She’d need to leave now if she wanted to get to Markarth in any reasonable amount of time, and she thought it might keep her from saying something she may come to regret. 

 

She shoved a few items into her satchel, fastening it at the top, and flung it over her shoulder. She brought her fingers up to her mouth, nibbling on her cuticles, and sighed around the digits. She would be back in Markarth. It was only a two-day journey to High Rock over the pass. She could slip over the border, with no one here being any the wiser. Icy tendrils caressed her spine and she shook the sensation off, her teeth chattering in her skull. She glanced around the room while she clutched the strap of her bag, and worried her bottom lip. 

 

What if Astrid had decided to be less than thorough in disposing of the body in the cabin? What happened that one night in Markarth, the night she must have met Astrid? Astrid’s words from earlier resurfaced: where would she go, indeed. 

 

The Breton’s sight grew fuzzy and she blinked it away several times, sniffing as dust tickled her nose and she dragged her sleeve across her eyes while her stomach coiled and twisted around her entrails, and she swallowed the lead ball that swelled in her throat. 

 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who's read/left kudos/commented on WKaB! Any time I get that email notification, I break out in a smile and my day is totally made. I really appreciate everything. And, again, I do try to edit/proofread as much as I can, but mistakes slip through. If you catch any, please don't be afraid of pointing them out. I appreciate it so much. 
> 
> I'm sorry if this chapter feels like filler. This draft was particularly difficult to deal with, and I cut and added and cut and added to it over and over, but I had to move on to other chapters or this would never get out. Hope everyone enjoys it, at least a little. The story picks up a little more from here now that we're firmly in the First Branch of the piece.


	5. The First Branch, Chapter Four: The Shrouded Path

She was so beautiful.

 

That was the first thought that popped into Gwyneira’s head when she found Muiri in The Hag’s Cure, after being directed to her by the proprietor. Typical Breton features, delicate bone structure, fine brow, slightly upturned nose, pale skin and a smaller frame than the tall and sturdy Nords that dominated the social sphere. Gwyneira glanced down for a moment at her own scruffy appearance and thought about the dirt that was probably smudging her face and frowned. Bringing her eyes back up, she caught the way the light hit the brunette’s hair, creating a copper halo. She stared a little too long, because the other Breton raised an eyebrow that brought a flush to Gwyneira’s cheeks.

 

“Um, hi,” she stammered. “Ah, Astrid sent me. On business. The, uh,” she swallowed, “you called for us, and Astrid sent me--”

 

Muiri’s brows shot up. “Oh...oh! You really came. I can’t believe it worked. The Black Sacrament actually worked. So then, you’re here about my contract,” she said, a smile flickering on her lips. But as soon as it appeared it melted away and then her jaw set. “Good. I need you to kill someone. His name is Alain Dufont.”

 

When Gwyneira remained silent, Muiri plowed on, her eyes bright and hazed. “I thought...I thought he loved me. But he was only using me,” she stated. Her lower lip trembled and Gwyneira frowned, but made no move or noise to stop her; she just let the words leave her in a rush. “He used me to get close to the Shatter-Shields. We used to be very close, like family,” Muiri explained. “Nilsine and Friga were like sisters to me, and Tova was like my mother. Until Alain,” she grit out. “He used me to steal from them, and they blamed me when he skipped town. They wouldn’t even listen to me, and Nilsine called me all sorts of horrible things--” she looked away, taking several breaths before she continued. “Alain Dufont stole my life, so now I’m taking his.”

 

Gwyneira nodded and Muiri sucked on her bottom lip, her expression clouded.

 

“There’s...there is one more thing I would like you to do. You don’t have to,” she rushed, “not as part of the original contract, but I would reward you if you do it.”

 

The other woman crossed her arms and rested her weight on one foot, looking at the other woman with her brow raised. Muiri bit her lip and wrung her hands.

 

“I want you to kill Nilsine, too.”

 

Gwyneira’s other brow joined her first. “What? Why?”

 

“Because...because I want Tova to know exactly what she’s lost. She was like my mother and she just cast me out. Maybe if she loses her second daughter, she’ll see how wrong she was. They were everything to me, and they wouldn’t listen to me when I told them I had nothing to do with Alain’s plan. They just tossed me out like I was garbage.” She swallowed. “I was grieving too, and the things they said to me...” she sniffled then looked Gwyneira in the eye. “I want Tova to drown in her tears.”

The assassin gazed at Muiri, her frown and flushed face, and her stomach gave a flutter.

 

“I’ll--I’ll consider it. No promises,” Gwyneira said. “Alain’s definitely dead though. Just point me in the right direction and he’s gone.”

 

“Thank you. That’s really all I can ask. I _will_ reward you, however, if you do.”

 

Gwyneira nodded, swallowing and trying to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth.

 

“Alain and his bandit trash are holed up an old dwarven ruin called Raldbthar, near Windhelm,” she said. “About...west, southwest, I believe.”

 

Gwyneira looked back to Muiri and bit her lip. “I’m--I’m really sorry. For everything. I--just--it’ll be alright. Eventually.” She kicked at the ground, the scrape of her boot against the stone filling the static between them, and Gwyneira tugged on her robes. “No one--no one deserves that. Sometimes people just lash out. I’ll take care of it,” she promised, choking on her words as they kept catching in her throat, and a smile flickered across Muiri’s face.

 

“It’s a long trip from here. You could--you could spend the night here. You know, rest up before you have to head out,” Muiri said. “There’s enough room here, and you won’t have to waste your gold to listen to Kleppr and Frabbi bicker with each other.”

 

Gwyneira’s lips parted in a small ‘oh’ and a warmth settled in her bones. “If it doesn’t put you both out…” she trailed off, glancing at Bothela across the room who only sighed and rolled her eyes and nodded anyway.

 

“See? It won’t be any imposition at all,” Muiri stated, her lips curving gently up, a dimple on the left side, and Gwyneira’s own lips quirked at one corner. “There isn’t much to do here, other than brew, but it is getting late and I haven’t eaten yet. Would you like to join me? It’s just some bread and cheese, but you must’ve come a long way…”

 

“Sure. I mean, I haven’t eaten much, and I’m not terribly picky so that….sounds nice,” she mumbled and the other woman laughed.

  
  


They sat down at a small table and Gwyneira began to pick at the hunk of bread she had received on her plate. She chewed the slightly stale piece she tore off and let out a breath.

 

“Is everything alright?” Muiri asked, lips forming a small moue.

 

“Yes. Yes, I’m sorry. My mind was just kind of...wandering,” she sighed, allowing herself to smile a bit. “I’m just tired, I think.”

 

Muiri nodded. “I imagine you are. Where did you come from?”

 

Gwyneira furrowed her brows. “In general or before I arrived here?”

 

The woman laughed, the silvery notes ringing in Gwyneira’s ears. “I meant before you arrived here. How long was your trip?” She tilted her chin up and rubbed it with her thumb. “Though, since you brought it up, where are you from originally?”

 

Gwyneira chuckled. “I came from Falkreath, and I’m originally from Bruma. In Cyrodiil.”

 

Muiri’s leaned back a bit. “That’s quite the way. What brought you to Skyrim in the first place?”

 

“Things were just...not great at home.” Gwyneira turned her gaze towards the wall. “My father is--he’s delicate. And he’s been having a hard time adjusting to mother’s...passing. And I had something else in mind, but things got in the way.” She looked back down to her plate and tore another piece of bread off and shoved it in her mouth, chewing and then gulping it down. “Life, right?” she muttered.

 

“It’s tough,” she heard Muiri state. When Gwyneira glanced back up to her, Muiri continued. “Not really having a home. I mean, not that you don’t just--”

 

“No, you’re right. I don’t. Not really. There isn’t really anything to go back to. I mean, the house is still there, but my father...isn’t.”

 

She set her hand on the table and felt another palm, warm and soft, rest over it.

 

“I won’t pry,” Muiri told her.

 

Gwyneira shook her head. “It’s fine. It’s really not a problem. The lay sisters are way better at handling father,” she sighed. “They’re calmer than I am anyway.”

 

Muiri nodded and opened her mouth, then she snapped it shut and gave a small grin instead. She then went on to tell Gwyneira, “I know it’s too early, but I want to thank you for what you’re doing for me. I know it’s part of the arrangement, and you don’t know me, but...I really do appreciate it.”

 

Gwyneira flushed and shrugged her shoulders. “It’s really--it’s not--I’m…” she trailed off, exhaling through her nose as her mouth puckered a bit. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

Muiri squeezed the other woman’s hand, and Gwyneira felt a flutter behind her breast.

 

* * *

 

 

So killing a bandit wasn’t so terrible, Gwyneira thought as she reached the base of the mountain that housed Raldbthar. She was getting paid to do society a favor. No one could be upset about a bandit being murdered. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Besides, there were always bounties being offered on bandit hideouts.

 

And she couldn’t imagine what Muiri had seen in him; the man was disgusting. She figured that he must’ve been a real smooth talker when he wanted to be.

 

Gwyneira scoffed.

 

The plains were chilly, despite it still being Heartfire, and Gwyneira wrapped her cloak around her shoulders tighter and she shivered, watching her puffs of breath curl around themselves in front of her, shimmering in the early morning light. The crisp air stung her cheeks and ran icy tendrils over her face and hair while Magnus drifted across the afternoon sky. She trudged along the path, starting sparks between her fingers as she passed the time, making them twist and dance a few feet above her head before watching them disperse in an array of glittering light. She shook the tingle off of her hands and tugged on the hem of her robes. She inhaled the crisp air and felt it fill her chest and cool her insides while she continued through the landscape and looked to the south and her heart stuttered, constricting, and she felt the familiar pinch at the corners of her eyes and she chewed on the inside of her cheek. Her throat closed around itself and she swallowed.

 

She kept her pace as the sun sank lower and lower into the horizon, the clouds glowing peach and coral, and stars began to peek out from Oblivion, the outline of Masser hardly noticeable, and she ignited a fire between her hands for a few moments and let the warmth soak into her palms. She came up to the cross in the road and looked at the sign for several breaths, tracing the letters of the city names, her brows furrowed, and she turned her face to the west, the Druadach Mountains far on the horizon.

 

She went east.

 

* * *

 

 

Windhelm hadn’t changed since Gwyneira was last there to see the Aretino boy. Still bitter, still frigid. She hadn’t realized the warmth of Bruma until she came to this place. The wind was harsh as it wove between the large stone buildings and stung her exposed flesh. She ducked into Candlehearth Hall and sighed in pleasure when the cozy air wrapped itself around her frame. When she sat down at the bar, after ordering a pint of ale, an older gentleman slumped down in the seat next to her. She raised her eyebrow but said nothing, but peered at him out of the corner of her eye. Well-dressed, straight posture, fine clothing. She almost snorted. She thought he must be from one of the monied families in here. Ale was ale, wherever one chose to drink.

 

She watched the innkeeper go up to him and set a stein in front of him. “How are you holding up, Torbjorn?” she asked.

 

Torbjorn heaved a long groan and took a deep swig of his drink. “Oh Elda, the same. Tova can hardly bring herself to get out of bed most days,” he lamented as he stared into his beverage.

 

Gwyneira’s grip on her pint tightened, and she heard the rustle of cloth and a sigh. She started and glanced up at the man, her face pinched in a grimace, as he looked at her as well.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t make for good company right now.” She watched his eyes glaze over, hazy, and he inhaled, and she listened as his breath hitched. “My wife and I are still coming to terms with our daughter’s death.”

 

“Oh, I’m...so sorry,” she stammered.

 

“It’s my wife and our other daughter who are taking it the hardest,” he said. “I get by with drink, but nothing seems to give my wife or daughter peace. Nilsine especially is wrecked by the loss of her sister--” He stopped and chuckled under his breath, his gaze downcast. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to say so much; I’m sure you have better things to do than listen to an old man’s grief.”

 

Gwyneira shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. I understand; I lost my mother this past year.” She swallowed and cleared her throat, and nodded to him. Knots formed in her stomach and squeezed the air from her body as her hands became clammy and blood pounded in her ears. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, standing up with her stool scraping the floorboards of the inn. “I--I need to go,” she stammered as she fished a couple septims from her pocket. “Have a couple rounds. On me. Here.” She pressed them on the bar and bolted from the inn.

 

She burst out into the cold air of the evening and felt her stomach lurch. She leaned over the side of the stairs and dry-heaved, and she heard the laugh of a passing guard.

 

“A little too much mead, eh?”

 

She stood up and brushed her hair out of her face and gave him a thin smile. “Just feeling a little ill. I’ll be fine in a moment.”

 

“Just stay out of trouble.”

 

She nodded, feeling her hair stick to the nape of her neck and she loosened the collar of her robes and sighed when she felt the brisk breeze slide over her skin. She wandered down the streets, coming upon the Chapel of Talos. She raised her eyebrows when she saw the altar.

 

Gwyneira sat in a pew, breathing in and out and in and out and her vision began to refocus in the darkness of the chapel. She glanced around, her gaze falling on the only other person inside at this time of night, sitting a couple rows in front of her. A woman, Nordic, hair pulled back at her nape, and hunched over. She noticed the woman’s shoulders trembling.

 

She stood to go sit next to her. Silenced hung between them for several beats as they both continued to stare: Gwyneira, at the altar; and her companion, at the floor

 

“Have you ever lost anyone close to you?” she heard, the soft voice cracking the quiet.

 

She turned to look at the woman, and nodded. “My mother. This year,” the Breton stated, her gaze trained in front of her.

 

Her companion sniffled. “Why do you think they take them?” she asked.

 

“I don’t know,” Gwyneira mumbled.

 

The sound of the blonde fidgeting in her seat made it to Gwyneira’s ears and she rubbed her palms together.

 

“I lost my sister not long ago. My twin. Gods--” and her voice spintered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect anyone to be in here this late,” she confessed to the other.

 

Gwyneira swallowed, her hair sticking to the skin on the back of her neck, and she asked, “Are you Nilsine?” she asked.

 

She frowned. “I am. Do I know you?”

 

The brunette shook her head. “No, I’m--I just know a friend of yours.”

 

The crease between Nilsine’s brows deepened. “Who?”

 

“Er, Muiri, actually--”

 

Nilsine’s frown morphed into a scowl so quickly Gwyneira thought for a moment that she had imagined any other expression in the first place.

 

“Muiri?” she hissed. “I can’t believe my family trusted that backstabbing harlot.” She whipped around to look at Gwyneira in the eye. “You tell that Breton trash that she’s dead to us. Do you hear me? Dead.”

 

Gwyneira shook her head and her lips parted. “What?”

 

“Are you stupid? I don’t know why she sent you here, but you can just go right back to her and tell her we never want her near us again. I can’t believe we trusted that little witch in the first place, especially now that she’s apprenticing under that hag in Markarth, worshipping daedra and brewing those poisons in their shop.”

 

Gwyneira glared, her brow lowering and she set her jaw. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything--”

 

“Oh please,” she hissed. “What’s a little trickery to someone who already resorts to it when they’re too weak to carry out their own business. Disgusting.”

 

Gwyneira’s chest constricted, ribs crushing her lungs and she clenched her fists as her eyes burned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

 

Nilsine appeared bemused for a moment, and she searched the other woman’s face as a sneer crept over her visage. “Oh,” she sneered, “of course. You too.”

 

“‘Me too’ what?” Gwyneira snapped.

 

“You’re a witch too, and a Breton. I should have guessed by your name. A Reachman, I bet, if you’re from Markarth.”

 

“I am _not_ a Reachman. I’m from Cyrodiil,” she bit out and stood. Nilsine stood too, and had a good few inches on the Breton.

 

“Hit a nerve? Why don’t your kind just get out of here? Leave Skyrim for the Nords; go back to your crumbling Empire.”

 

“Look,” Gwyneira said, voice tight, “I get that you’re grieving over your sister--”

 

“How dare you talk about Frig, when it was one of your kind that did it.”

 

“ _My kind_?”

 

“The things that they did to her body...who else could it be but someone who’d want to use it for their experiments.”

 

“Shut the fuck up,” Gwyneira finally burst, letting her palms fill with electricity.

 

Nilsine laughed. “See? You can’t even stand the thought of not using your weird magic to make sure you have the upper hand.”

 

“You don’t know anything about me, or magic, or anything,” she said, sparks shining brighter.

 

“If you’re friends with Muiri, I think I know all I need to know.” The blonde advanced on her. “Two treacherous little opportunists looking out for each other. Trash.” She taunted, her lower lids rimmed with red and, the sockets, two deep bruises on her face. Gwyneira took a step back, biting her lip and wanting to undo her decision to and to just go back to Markarth. “Are you in on it, too?” Nilsine asked. “You’re all countrymen, right? You and Muiri and Dufont? Why don’t you just go back to whatever cave you three crawled out of?”

 

Gwyneira clenched her fists and they dimmed, but she remained still. “You need to stop talking,” she warned the other woman.

 

“Do not tell me what to do,” Nilsine said, and she grabbed the shorter woman by the front of her robes.

 

Gwyneira went to slap her hand away, but she stumbled over the side of the pew as she tried to back away, her heart kicking the back of her breastbone and struggling against her ribs, and she tried to reach out. Nilsine went over with her, and Gwyneira would remain unsure as to who struck first, but she was aware of stars bursting across her vision, and she clipped the woman on top of her with an elbow. Nilsine grabbed her hair and slammed the back of her head down on the floor, a sharp crack resonating in the chapel. Gwyneira attempted to shove the blonde, but Nilsine refused to budge. Beneath Gwyneira’s flesh, acid simmered and burned along her veins and nerves, and Nisline moved to strike her again.

 

Gwyneira fired a bolt of lightning into the other woman’s chest, her body wilting atop the other woman on the chapel floor. She looked down at the woman’s body with wide eyes and gaping mouth and scrambled away from it. Her stomach gave another lurch and she ran over to a planter, expelling the contents of her stomach into it. She rested her head against the cool clay of the pot and let out a small sob and she stayed there for a moment, breathing and her face covered in sweat, and then she stood up and dragged her sleeve over her mouth.

 

She glanced back over to Nilsine’s body and shuddered. She walked back over to the body and dragged it up on top of a bench, folding her arms over her chest.

 

Gwyneira slunk out of the chapel, heart in her stomach and her throat tight.

 

* * *

 

She arrived back to Markarth, and Muiri, several days later. Bothela let her in and Gwyneira nodded to the old woman before she settled down in one of the chairs. Her gaze ran over the alchemy station, the way it illuminated the area around it, the floor reflecting the green glow from the simmering potions, and the padded sound of footsteps floated down the corridor and into her ears, and she saw Muiri come up to her.

 

“You did it. I heard about Alain. The bastard got exactly what he deserved. And Nilsine, too...you did it. You really did it,” Muiri breathed, smiling at Gwyneira. She sat down across from her and took the other woman’s hands in hers, and Gwyneira shivered, her own palms clammy and sticky. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I can never really repay you for everything, but here.” She then released their clasped hands and she took out a hefty purse and pressed it into Gwyneira’s hand, “your gold, as promised. And this,” and she took a ring off of her finger and handed it to the other Breton. “I want you to have this. It’s an enchanted ring. Please, take it. As payment, and a symbol of my affection.” Color blossomed on her face even as she said the words. She smiled, laughing, and she continued. “If you like to make your own potions, it can give them a little boost. Or, you could sell it,” Muiri told her and ducked her head. “It should fetch some extra coin.”

 

Gwyneira shook her head, slipping the ring on her middle finger and holding it up to the lantern light. “It’s lovely,” she murmured. “No, I,” she breathed, “I wouldn’t sell it.”

 

Muiri’s face glowed. “It’s just a band: nothing fancy. It--it was my mother’s.”

 

Gwyneira frowned. “You shouldn’t give me this; you should keep it.” She moved to take it off but Muiri placed her hand over Gwyneira’s.

 

“I want you to have it. Really. What you’ve done for me...no one has ever--” she looked away, “I just want you to have it,” she murmured. “Maybe it’ll bring you luck,” she smiled.

 

Gwyneira gave a crooked half-smile. “Maybe it will,” she conceded. Muiri’s hand lingered, the soft palm cradling the top of Gwyneira’s and the warmth trickling over the flesh there. She glanced down, tracing the line of Muiri’s jaw towards her mouth looking the slope of her cupid’s bow and the way she licked her bottom lip. She dragged her eyes back to Muiri’s. Then her face heated and she slapped her free hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry, it’s been a long trip. Thank you so much for--er--everything.” She backed away, pulling her hand away, laughing and scratching the back of her head as she made her way to the exit while something acrid clawed at her stomach and began to crawl up her oesophagus, and ozone stung her nose.

 

Muiri’s hand stopped her as it clasped Gwyneira’s wrist in it. “You’ll...you’ll write me, won’t you? Don’t be a stranger. If you’re ever back in town, or anything--”

 

“I’ll visit,” Gwyneira told her as her forehead creased and her lids fluttered, lashes beating like moth wings against her cheekbones, and she opened her mouth again, “I’ll let you know where you can find me.” Then she grimaced, but laughed. “I do have to go though. I need to get back.” She pulled away and let her gaze linger on the other woman, and Muiri beamed at Gwyneira, and the assassin felt her abdomen clench and the taste of bile lingered at the back of her throat.

 

Gwyneira nodded and disappeared through the door.

 

* * *

 

 

The motion of the cart swayed her back and forth, back and forth, back and forth as it rolled along through Falkreath Hold. She rubbed at her throat, feeling the knobs of her larynx as she soothed the area, swallowing saliva to dilute the burn she felt there. Her hands tingled and she rubbed her palms on her thighs, scratching the tender flesh and she broke out in a sweat, the moisture beading along her lip and brow.

 

She watched as the cart ventured deeper and deeper into the hold, and she knocked on the front wall of the cart, behind Kibell’s seat.

 

“What?” he grunted, and she rolled her eyes behind his back.

 

“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to go to Falkreath.”

 

“We’re nearly there,” he protested. “I’m not giving you your coin back.”

 

“Did you hear me ask for it?” she huffed. “I want to go somewhere else.”

 

“I’m not your personal driver, girl,” he grumbled.

 

She tilted her face up, peering into the sky, and heard the rustle of pine needles and tree branches waving in the bitter wind. She swallowed down the bile that boiled inside of her, scorching her stomach and churned. She looked back down to the floor.

 

“I will pay you extra if you can get me to Ivarstead,” she insisted. “Or as close as you can.”

 

She heard him shift, cotton and leather sliding across each other, and he hummed.

 

“I’m not sure. It’ll cost you quite a bit more,” he mused.

 

“Fine, whatever. What do you want?”

 

“An extra hundred.”

 

Her gaze snapped up back to him and she glared at the back of his head. “A hundred septims? You already charged me fifty to get to Falkreath,” she accused.

 

“I don’t have to take you anywhere, I could just drop you off on the side of the road.”

 

Gwyneira clenched her jaw and exhaled through her nose, the puff of air cooling the moisture dotting her upper lip, and she jerked her head in a nod.

 

“Fine. I’ll pay another hundred. But with that, you better get me damn close to Ivarstead.”

 

She saw him smirk and briefly entertained the thought of setting his cart on fire.

 

* * *

 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is a little later than normal, but here it is! This chapter gave me problems when I was rewriting and editing it, but I had to get this out or this story would wind up in limbo for who knows how long. And again, I do all my editing, and some mistakes make it through, but if you find anything, please let me know. It's how I get better. Feel free to leave constructive criticism too; I'm open to all kinds of feedback.
> 
> And thank you to everyone who's read/left kudos/commented on here! It makes me smile that, so far, people seem to like this. Follow me on Tumblr if you want to see anything about updates or just want to see what I get up to xD


	6. The First Branch, Chapter Five: The Frigid Gale of Fate

Gwyneira panted as she trudged up the side of the Throat of the World. Seven thousand steps. Apparently no one was exaggerating when they called it that. The wind bit into her skin through the layers of cloth she wore. She had not packed near enough for this segue. 

 

She should have thought this through. 

 

Her thighs and back screamed with exertion, sweat making her robes stick to her back despite the freezing temperature and snow, which only served to chill her flesh more. Her lungs burned as she tried to drink in deep draughts of air.

 

“Why do these religious sorts build monasteries on the tops of mountains? Let alone the tallest mountain in Tamriel,” she gasped. “I hate them already.”

 

She glanced up the path and saw the looming shadow of High Hrothgar and nearly wilted in relief. There was probably about a couple hundred more steps, but it was a vast improvement to seven thousand. Gwyneira grit her teeth and continued her ascent, cursing the Greybeards and dragons the whole way. 

 

When she, at last, reached the top, she shoved the parcel she volunteered to carry for Klimmek into the chest at the base of the stairs. “Old knees my left eye,” she mumbled, glancing back to the path she just climbed and groaned when she spied the other steps that led up to the stone structure. Idly, she wondered if they were considered a part of the seven thousand steps or if they were considered a bonus as she crawled her way up the icy stairs and collapsed against the facade of the monastery.

 

She shoved the doors open to the monastery, twinging her shoulder as she did so, and stepped inside the dark atrium, her footsteps echoing off of the stone walls. She walked deeper into the cloister, the path lit by flickering torches that cast dancing shadows on the floor. Dappled light rained from the openings in the ceiling and an elderly man approached her, his face obscured by a blue cowl and grizzled beard. 

 

“Welcome to High Hrothgar, Dragonborn,” he announced and she crossed her arms in front of her. “I am Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards.”

 

“How do you know I’m the Dragonborn? I could just be some pilgrim who got lost. Or maybe I’m here to rob you,” she asked while tapping her foot.

 

He frowned. “You answered our call, did you not?”

 

“You mean that ‘dovahkiin’ business? Maybe.”

 

“You wouldn’t have come if you did not seek answers.”

 

She huffed and pursed her lips, silent for a moment as she regarded his placid face and humble robes. “Fine,” she admitted. “Maybe I did come for that. But just to put this whole thing to rest. You have the wrong person. I’m not even a Nord.”

 

“Neither was Tiber Septim.”

 

“And I’m not trying to unite an Empire, so I don’t see how that’s a good point.”

 

She thought she heard a sigh come from him, but from where she stood it was hard to tell if it was him or if it was her own breath bouncing in the room. 

 

“There is only one way to find out if you truly are Dragonborn,” he said. He turned around and gestured to her to follow him. “Come.”

 

“‘Come?’” she repeated, falling into step behind him. “I’m not your dog,” she grumbled. 

 

He led her into a vestibule, where several other robed men stood in a circle, and she stopped short. She wondered if it would inappropriate to ask if this was where the ritual sacrifice happened, but decided against it since this was a group of men who could, in all reality, Shout her to pieces. 

 

She bit her tongue. 

 

Arngeir then faced her and held his arms open. “Shout at me,” he instructed.

 

She furrowed her brows. “Like, tell you off…?”

 

“Use your Voice. Your Thu’um. You did it when you slayed the dragon at Whiterun.”

 

“I--I’m not sure I could do it again,” she confessed. “I don’t even know how I did it. I was a bit...upset at the time,” she paused, swallowing. “Well,” she mumbled, “confused mostly.”

 

“Do you remember what it felt like.”

 

“Kind of like I had to throw up--Oh, you mean the Shout.” She glanced up and exhaled. “It felt like pressure. In my chest.”

 

“Concentrate on that feeling. The Dragonborn can Shout by instinct; you do not need to train to be able to do it.”

 

“How keen,” she mumbled. 

 

“The word is Fus,” he told her, lips twitching at the corners. 

 

She took a deep breath and thought about her time in Whiterun, the fear of being burned alive and the panic she felt when she absorbed that strange essence from the dragon as it disintegrated in front of her. She felt it burn in her throat, her chest expanding and contracting, and she exhaled.

 

“ _ FUS _ .”

 

She staggered back and saw that Arngeir lost his footing as well. She swallowed and looked at the ground. She rubbed her hands over her face and gripped her hair.

 

“Well, fuck,” she breathed. 

 

Not a fluke, then.

 

* * *

 

“It’s been too long. She carried out her contract but she hasn’t been back for nearly three weeks,” Arnbjorn growled to Astrid. The two Nords were standing at Astrid’s desk, with Babette and Gabriella. “It’s been too long and she knows where our Sanctuary is. For all we know she went to the Legion, or Jarl Siddgeir. Not that the little fop would do anything,” the werewolf said, lips tight and bloodless. 

 

“Calm down, husband,” Astrid soothed. 

 

“I don’t see any need to kill her,” Babette joined. “I doubt she’d say anything. She killed Alain, and the Shatter-shield girl from what I hear. If nothing else, I doubt she’d incriminate herself too.”

 

The dark elf said. “If she were to betray us, I would have Seen it. You know that.” 

 

Arnbjorn crossed his arms and scowled. “I suppose you’re right. But still. Why is she taking so long? I don’t understand how you trust her, Astrid.”

 

“Because I’ve seen her kill. And I believe she’s connected to us more than she realize,” she stated. “Just something about her,” Astrid mused. Babette nodded alongside the blonde, looking thoughtful. 

 

“Fine,” he grumbled. “As long as you’re fine with her, I am too. But if she does anything to call that into question--”

 

“You’ll be the first I go to, husband,” She said and laid her hand on his forearm, smiling up at him. 

 

“Aw, young love,” Babette cooed, smirking. 

 

“Yes,” Astrid muttered, breaking away from Arnbjorn and glancing at the little vampire. “Besides, we have more than our fair share to deal with now that the Night Mother’s Keeper is here.”

 

“The jibbering fool and his pet corpse?” Arnbjorn snarled. 

 

Gabriella glared. “It would behoove you to speak more carefully, brother. He was chosen to care for our Mother’s vessel. You should keep that in mind.”

 

“Indeed,” Astrid sighed. “Of course. I suppose I’m just on edge.”

 

“As we all are, my dear. I admit that Cicero is...challenging at best. And I’m not blind to the danger he may pose. But he is still an honored member of the Dark Brotherhood. Perhaps his presence here is a good omen.”

 

“Shouldn’t you be able to See that?” the werewolf sneered. 

 

Gabriella levied a look at him, eyebrows arched and lips pursed, and he cleared his throat and glanced away. 

 

“It’s more than that,” Astrid interrupted. “But that’s for me to worry about. I’ll take care of it.”

 

Gabriella and Babette nodded and took their leave, with Arnbjorn staying behind. He stepped closer to Astrid and held her by her shoulders, kissing the top of her head. 

 

“You know you can tell me what’s bothering you,” he murmured.

 

A soft smile graced her features. “I know. It’s just--” She glanced away from him and bit her lip. “This is my home, Arnbjorn. I don’t know what I would do if I lost it.”

 

He growled. “You won’t. I would never let that happen.”

 

She laid her head against his chest. “I’m just being a bit silly.”

 

“Don’t worry about the jester right now. You have other things on your plate.”

 

Astrid nodded and he rubbed his hands up and down her back and they did not move for some time. 

 

* * *

 

Gwyneira, covered in dust and grime and various embalming fluids, scowled as she read the note that had been left behind in Ustengrav. She shoved it into her satchel and pressed her fist to her forehead. The echoing of water droplets reverberated in the old tomb and she felt the damp air hang over her and it settled into her clothing. She stared at the wall for a moment, watching the play of gloom and glow skitter across it, and took in a deep breath and let it out slowly before pursing her lips. 

 

“Rent the attic room in the Sleeping Giant Inn. All the way back in fucking Riverwood,” she mumbled. “It doesn’t even have an attic.” She crossed her arms and glared at the form of Jurgen Windcaller. “I don’t even know who this person is and I already hate them. And now I’m talking to a corpse. And myself. I should have just stayed in Bruma. It wasn’t so bad. Just get married. Start a family. Whatever. I wouldn’t be gallivanting around Skyrim, killing people and talking to dead bodies--” she shook her head “--and I’m still talking to myself.”

 

She sighed again before leaving Jurgen Windcaller and Ustengrav behind, climbing out through a previously hidden tunnel. It was then she decided she really hated the ancient Nords. And their architecture. And Skyrim. If she never saw crypts or undead again it would be too soon. If she ever went back to Cyrodiil, she would move away from the snow. Somewhere like Cheydinhal, or Chorrol. Somewhere that was anywhere else. 

 

When she dragged herself into the fresh air of Hjaalmarch, she thought that at least she was near Solitude and could hitch a ride to Whiterun. She looked at the sky, noting that Magnus still maintained its ascent from the east, affording her more time to make the trek to the capital rather than having to camp out near Ustengrav. 

 

The Breton rolled her eyes and headed west.

  
  


* * *

 

Riverwood hadn’t changed much, except people were much more on edge and almost jumpy than when she’d first arrived with Hadvar. She barged into the Sleeping Dragon Inn, startling a couple patrons near the door. She marched up to the innkeeper, an older blonde, and Gwyneira muttered through her clenched teeth, “Can I rent your attic room?”

 

The other woman--and as Gwyneira got a closer look at her face she noted she must be another Breton-- arched an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, we don’t have an attic room.” Gwyneira frowned when she heard the woman’s voice and opened her mouth to ask if they’d met, but the publican rushed to tell her, “If you like, please follow me and I can get you accommodated.”

 

Gwyneira huffed but followed behind. When the room’s door closed with a soft click the woman turned around. “Sorry about the cloak and dagger, but believe me, I wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.” She then walked over to the wall and depressed a stone that stuck out from the wall about a quarter of an inch. The bookshelf moved away to reveal a staircase leading down into what the brunette assumed was a basement, and she peered back the innkeeper with narrowed eyes.

 

The other woman only turned and gestured for Gwyneira to come with her. “I’ll tell you what you need to know, but I’d prefer to do it without having to worry about being overheard.” 

 

Gwyneira folded her arms across her chest. “Look, I can appreciate wanting privacy, but I want you to know I’m taking an awful lot on faith. Faith that I don’t really have. I swear if you try to pull a fast one on me down in that cellar, I will fuck you up. I am in no mood to deal with this,” she warned. 

 

“I truly have no desire to harm you,” the older woman said over her shoulder as they proceeded down the staircase and into the underground room. She stopped and turned back around to face the girl. “So, the Greybeards think you’re the Dragonborn.”

 

“So they tell me. Had to go find a horn and everything. But I have a feeling you’re the one who took it,” she stated as she narrowed her eyes at her new companion. “You going to tell me your name or what? Seems unfair you’d drag me all this way, steal my horn, and keep who you are a secret.”

 

“It’s Delphine.” The blonde moved over to a table that dominated the middle of the room and pulled the aforementioned horn out from underneath it and placed it on top.  

 

“Whatever,” Gwyneira said and grabbed the horn. “But you better have a good reason for dragging me down here. I think I mentioned that I’m not in the best of moods.”

 

“I  _ am  _ sorry about that,” the woman stressed. “I had to make sure it wasn’t a Thalmor trap. I’m a part of a group that’s been looking for you, or someone like you, for a very long time.”

 

“Okay, well, here I am. What do you want.”

 

“I have to make sure I can trust you.”

 

Gwyneira’s eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me? You, essentially, stalk me, steal my horn, and corner me in this basement, and you want to make sure you can trust me? Shouldn’t I be asking that?”

 

“If you don’t trust me, you were a fool to walk down here.”

 

“Look, lady, I’m pretty sure I can handle myself,” she said, and she brought her hands up from her sides and flicked her wrists to ignite a fireball floating above each palm. “I don’t really care who you are or what you want, but I’d strongly suggest not trying me. I’ve had the worst couple of months and I’m just about at the end of my rope. My family, despite some...other issues, has been remarkably blessed with magicka, and I really don’t know if I have the patience to deal with people’s nonsense right now. So cut to the chase or I’m about to get very pissed off. Now,” she bit out through her teeth, “what were you doing in Ustengrav?”

 

Delphine glared for a moment, eyes flitting back and forth between fireballs, and sighed. “Fine. As I said before, we have been searching for the Dragonborn. I knew the Greybeards would send you there if they thought you were Dragonborn. They're nothing if not predictable. When you showed up here, I knew you were the one the Greybeards sent, and not some Thalmor plant.”

 

“You said you had to make sure I wasn’t a trap. So, why are the Thalmor after you? Just so you know, I generally try to stay out of their way.”

 

“We’re very old enemies. And, if my suspicions are correct, they may have something to do with the dragons returning.”

 

“That...seems like it would be outside of their scope of influence,” Gwyneira muttered, glaring at Delphine. 

 

“Even if they are, that’s not important right now,” Delphine told her. “What is important is that you might be the Dragonborn.”

 

“Yeah, that’s what people keep saying. Let’s say I am the Dragonborn, all chosen and everything,” she threw her hands up in the air, extinguishing the flames they held, “why would anyone be looking for me?”

 

“We remember what most don’t,” the Breton informed her. “The Dragonborn is the ultimate dragon slayer.” She fixed the younger woman with a stare, and Gwyneira stepped back. “You are the only one who can permanently kill a dragon by devouring its soul.”

 

“Wait, its soul? Devouring?  _ Permanently? _ You mean they won’t die otherwise?”

 

“They won’t,” she affirmed. “Can you do it, though. Can you devour a dragon’s soul?”

 

“If by devour you mean the dragon’s corpse bursts into flames and something whooshes into me and I can make things fall down if I yell loudly at them, then yeah, I think so.”

 

“This isn’t the time for jokes,” Delphine shot, her voice raised. “This is serious. Dragons coming back are bad new for everyone.”

 

“I kind of get that,” Gwyneira snapped. “You’re not the one having to deal with this. Maybe you should remember who sought who out.”

 

“Then I’ll see what you can do for myself soon enough.”

 

“What in Oblivion does that mean? What aren’t you telling me?”

 

Delphine ran her hand through her hair and glanced down at the map on the table. “Dragons aren’t just coming back,” she began. “They’re coming back to life.”

 

“They’re what now?”

 

“They weren’t gone somewhere all this time. My predecessors killed them off centuries ago, but something is resurrecting the dragons. I need you to help me stop it.”

 

“And how, exactly, do you propose I do that? And how do you even know they’re coming back to life anyway?”

 

“I’ve been to the burial mounds,” she told her. “They’re empty. Something is coming along and bringing them back to life. But I’ve figured out where the next one is going to be.”

 

Gwyneira leaned against the table, the corner pressing into her hip and she rested a hand on the surface. “And how exactly do you know that?”

 

“You should know. You’re the one who got the map, the dragonstone, for Farengar.”

 

Gwyneira tilted her head. “What does that have anything to do with it?”

 

“It’s not just a map; it’s a map of dragon burial mounds. The pattern is pretty clear and I’ve been able to figure out where the next dragon will wake.” Delphine pointed to a spot on the map. “It’s spreading from the southeast, down in the Jeralls near Riften. The one at Kynesgrove is the next one, if the pattern holds. If we can get there before it happens, maybe we can stop it.”

 

Silence reigned for several long moments before Gwyneira spoke up. “I’m sorry, but was there a request in there at any point?”

 

Delphine glared and clenched her jaw. “I would appreciate if you were to at least meet me at Kynesgrove as soon as possible.”

 

“Fine,” she bit out. “Whatever. Dragons, bad, I get it. We’ll meet in Kynesgrove. Or,” she paused, rolling her eyes and turning her head towards the ceiling, “we can travel together. That way we can make sure nothing happens to the other if this dragon thing is as big of a deal you’re making it out to be.”

 

“I assure you it is.”

 

“Hey, I’m taking it seriously. Seriously enough to go with you to Kynesgrove and...see what happens?”

 

Delphine bit her lip before answering. “Well, essentially yes. I suppose we are just waiting to see what happens. But there isn’t really a lot else that we can do. For the time being. We need to have an idea of what we’re working with before we can move forward.”

 

Gwyneira sighed and shook her head. “I agree. This is just--it’s just a lot.”

 

The blonde nodded. “I understand. But--”

 

“I know, I know. Fate of the world, I get it.” She let out another little huff and crossed her arms. “So, when do we leave?”

 

“Ideally? Tonight.”

 

“Oh great, night travel. Completely not dangerous for two women alone on the road.”

 

“You’re the Dragonborn and I’m a highly trained soldier. I thought you said you could handle yourself.”

 

Gwyneira rolled her eyes again. “Fine, fine. I’m just saying.” She glanced to the side as she worried her cheek. “I’m tired,” she admitted. “It’s kind of been a long couple of days trying to get back to this place.”

 

Delphine frowned. “I suppose we could leave early tomorrow morning. Might be best to start fresh anyway. No telling what we’re going to face.”

 

Gwyneira perked up. “My thoughts exactly. Now get out of my room so I can go to bed.”

 

Delphine raised her brows, staring at the young woman, and Gwyneira tapped her foot on the ground. “Hey,” she said, “it’s been a long trip, made even longer by you, I might add, and I would actually kill for some decent sleep. So if you could just leave me to it, I’d be grateful. And in a much better mood come morning.”

 

She thought for a moment that Delphine might argue, but all the other woman did was nod and motion for Gwyneira to follow her up the stairs, sliding the hatch closed behind them, and left her to her own devices, and Gwyneira released a breath, feeling her chest empty and the blood drain from her cheeks. She flopped onto the bed, face first, and pulled a pillow over her head and screamed into the mattress. 

 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this update has been so delayed. I'm not happy with this chapter, but maybe that's me being overly critical. Anyway, I hope you all might enjoy it. Next chapter picks up, and the first branch is almost completely written out now, so hopefully updates will be a bit more regular. Thank you to everyone who's left kudos or comments, or has just read and enjoyed my scribbles on the internet. It always just makes me so happy seeing those notifications. And thanks for sticking with this story, despite my now-sporadic updates.


	7. The First Branch, Chapter Six: From a Shout into a Whisper

It was sometime in the afternoon the next day when Gwyneira and Delphine made it to Kynesgrove. So far, Gwyneira only saw a barren patch of dirt surrounded by a stone circle: no dragons, no weird dragon resurrection. Nothing. She glanced at Delphine, whose posture was stiff, and she saw the woman kept moving her head from side to side. Gwyneira thought she must be looking for something to happen. She peered up at the sky, but the day was quite clear, just a slim veil of white across the azure backdrop. 

 

She dropped her gaze to Delphine and opened her mouth, but before she could speak, she heard thunder and the grove became darker than before. She felt her stomach drop when she heard the second clap of thunder. 

 

Gwyneira felt the color drain from her face as Delphine looked at her. “Somehow, I don’t think that’s the weather,” Gwyneira stated, and sweat gathered at her temples and she licked her lips. “I’ve definitely heard that sound before.”

 

As she said the words, a black shadow swooped out of the sky and began circling the mound where the two women stood. 

 

“Oh, that’s not good,” Gwyneira muttered as she stared, unblinking at the sight before them.

 

“You’ve seen it before?”

 

“At Helgen.”

 

“ _ Ful, losei Dovahkiin? Zu'u koraav nid nol dov do hi _ ,” they heard the dragon say from overhead as it lowered to hover just over the ground. 

 

Delphine drew her sword and Gwyneira conjured lightning in her hands, but the dragon made no move to attack them. Instead, he Shouted something to the mound and the only thing from his strange language that Gwyneira caught was the word “Sahloknir.” As if that were any help, she scoffed to herself. The ground began to tremble under their feet and it split open, revealing the skeleton of a dragon in its maw, and the black dragon Shouted again, with Gwyneira watching in horror as flesh and scale began to regrow on the bones and it clawed its way out of the hole on its own.

 

Then, it spoke.

 

“ _ Alduin, thuri! Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik? _ ”

 

“ _ Geh, Sahloknir, kaali mir, _ ” was the response.

 

Delphine shouted over the commotion to Gwyneira, “What are they saying?”

 

She scowled at the other Breton and threw her hands up. “How am I supposed to know? Just because I’m dragonborn means I’m a dragon-to-Nordic translator?” she yelled back. She saw the larger dragon swing his head towards her and she gasped, swallowing her next retort, and she took a step back, stumbling over the loose gravel behind her. 

 

“You do not even know our tongue. Such arrogance, to dare take for yourself the name of Dovah.” He then spoke to his newly-risen companion: “ _ Sahloknir, krii daar joorre _ .”

 

She glanced at Delphine with a grimace and shrugged. “Whatever that was," she began, “I don’t think either of us needs to know dragon-speak to understand that that’s probably not too good for us,” she told Delphine. 

 

“You think?”

 

The black dragon took off, and other--which Gwyneira began to believe was Sahloknir--brought his tail in an arc towards the two women. Delphine dodged in time but it caught Gwyneira off guard and was knocked down, skidding across the dirt, and winded. She got to her feet and shot of bolt of lightning at the dragon, hitting his hind flank and he shook it off. Delphine had abandoned the use of her sword and had drawn her bow to attack from the distance, but Sahloknir kept coming at them, and Gwyneira found herself getting exhausted, her electricity only coming out as despondent little sparks and it seemed that he had noticed this as he lunged and snapped at her, catching the sleeve of her robe. She yanked her arm away and kicked his snout, affording her some distance and she trailed her fingertips along the hilt of the dagger at her side. 

 

One of Delphine’s arrows embedded itself under his jaw, at the junction between that and his throat and he bellowed, though Gwyneira thought it might be more out of rage than pain. Delphine twisted around to face Gwyneira and cried out, “Shout at him! Use your Thu’um!”

 

“I don’t know if you noticed,” she panted, her voice rising in pitch as she continued to emit minute jolts of lightning from her palms, “but I can’t exactly do that on command!” she shrieked.

 

“Just give it a try!” Delphine snarled. “You had to do it for the Greybeards; you can do it here!”

 

Sahloknir’s tail, again, swept along the ground and knocked Gwyneira off of feet, and she landed on the dusty ground with a hard thump and she scrambled back to her feet, feeling the way her damp clothes clung to her skin and pulled and bunched under her arms and at her hips. They stared at each other, and she watched his nostrils flare and his lip drew back, exposing a sharp canine, and his tongue ran across his teeth and he reared back and dove his neck towards her. She took in a deep breath, feeling the burn begin along her oesophagus and ignite her diaphragm. 

 

Again, it swelled up from inside of her, dragging across her larynx and ripping out of her mouth, “ _ FUS,” _ and she watched as he lost his step and staggered. 

 

“Your Voice is strong, for a mortal,” he told her as he shook his head and regained his footing.

 

“So you do speak Nordic,” she rasped, rubbing her throat. 

 

He lunged at her again and this time she brought her dagger down between his eyes. He fumbled one last time and collapsed, his body disintegrating. She felt that familiar rushing sensation pulse through her body and she went hot and shuddered. She distantly heard Delphine remark something about her really being the Dragonborn. 

 

“I’m so pleased I meet your qualifications,” she wheezed as she hunched over. 

 

Delphine came up to her, dusting herself off. “I suppose I owe you some answers now,” she said.

 

Gwyneira rolled her eyes and yelled, “You  _ suppose _ ? What is going on? Who are you, and what do you want with me, other than being your resident dragon-slayer?”

 

“Well,” Delphine began and sighed, “for starters, I’m one of the last members of the Blades.”

 

“Wait wait wait,” Gwyneira interjected. She waved her hands up in front of her, her forehead creased. “Weren’t the Blades the bodyguards of the emperor? When the Septims were in power?” She paused and pursed her lips. “And alive?”

 

“Yes,” Delphine responded slowly, her brows raised. “I’m surprised you even know about us.”

 

Gwyneira just shrugged, glancing down at herself, and picked an invisible ball of lint off of her hemline.

 

“But we weren’t just that,” Delphine continued. “We used to be dragon-slayers. Very long ago. We served the Dragonborn, the greatest dragonslayer. When the last Dragonborn emperor died, we’ve been searching for a purpose, but now that dragons have reappeared, that purpose is clear.”

 

“How nice for you,” Gwyneira grumbled. “So what do you know about the dragons coming back, anyway?”

 

“Not a damn thing.”

 

“Seriously?” the younger questioned. “You don’t know anything? Why were you even looking for me then?” At Delphine’s glare, Gwyneira flung her hands up. “I know, I know. Because I’m the Dragonborn and ultimate dragon-slayer. Whatever. Do I look like I slay a lot of dragons to you? Look at me.” She gestured to her body. “I get winded climbing uphill. I use a dagger because I can’t even lift a sword.” She tugged her sleeves over her wrists. “I mean, I can, but not very well. I’m alright with a bow because, well, distance.” Then she pointed at the other woman, jabbing at the air between her words. “You need to find a better Dragonborn. You got a raw deal with this one.” She huffed and spread her arms. “I’m a mage, for Akatosh’s sake. Not exactly the stuff heroes are made of.”

 

“Are you done?” Delphine asked. “Because like it or not, you’re the one we’ve got.”

 

“But I don’t want to,” she insisted. She breathed through her nose, keeping her mouth shut tight, before she wilted and wrapped her arms around her waist. “I’m not just...I’m not trying to be difficult,” she confessed. “You would be better off without me. There are other people, better people, to handle this.”

 

Delphine rubbed her forehead. “That may be so,” she said, “but you’re the only one who can. You saw what happened to that dragon. You’re the only one who can permanently destroy them so that they can’t be brought back to life. Now, moving on,” she stated, fists on her hips and face, stern, “you said you’d seen that dragon at Helgen. What happened?”

 

Gwyneira flushed and dug the toe of her boot into the dirt and drew patterns in the soil. “I was there when they were going to execute Ulfric Stormcloak, and the dragon kind of...interrupted the execution. I got a pretty good look at it.”

 

“How good?”

 

“I don’t want to brag but I was quite close. Nearly underneath it. Trust me: he was memorable.”

 

“That’s interesting that it would be the same dragon,” she mused, relaxing her posture, as she stared beyond Gwyneira’s shoulder. Then she cursed and pounded her fist into her palm, breaking the momentary stillness of the grove. “Damn it, we’re crawling around in the dark here. We need to figure out who’s behind this.”

 

“Even if it were the Thalmor, wouldn’t this be kind of drastic for them? Like, drastic to the point of stupidity? They’d be in danger too.”

 

“That’s why we need to find out what they know.”

 

Gwyneira stared for a moment and sucked on her lip before opening her mouth with a pop. “This sounds like you’re going to ask me to do something really inconvenient to me. And I really don’t have time for this.” She turned around, checking her satchel, and started down the mound.

 

“Wait,” Delphine cried out. “You can’t just leave.”

 

“Sure I can. You’ll be fine without me. Find one of those better people! Some big, burly Nord with his big sword,” Gwyneira called back, coughing. “Good luck with the dragons, and the Thalmor.”

 

“You are the only one that can kill them!”

 

“Don’t be silly; you did great back there! Some arrows, a sharp blade...it’s like falling off a log.” Gwyneira frowned and tapped her foot for a moment, before regarding Delphine again. “A log that I can’t climb. At all. Ever.” She punctuated her words with a sharp nod. “Best of it, then.”

 

* * *

 

  
  


“Where have you been?” Astrid interrogated when Gwyneira waltzed back into the Falkreath Sanctuary. “We had no idea where you were,” the blonde Nord continued. “You could have been dead for all we knew. We were worried.”

 

“I wasn’t worried,” Festus called out.

 

Gwyneira choked, but stifled it when Astrid turned her narrowed eyes to her. 

 

“I’ve just...I’ve been thinking.” Gwyneira let out a long exhale and the line of her shoulders relaxed a bit. “I finished the Alain Dufont contract.”

 

“I’ve heard.” Astrid glanced around the atrium and jerked her head towards her bedroom. “Can I speak with you privately?”

 

Gwyneira paled and nodded, following the blonde. She cursed her last minute decision to see the Greybeards, and for even searching for that goddamn horn--that she still had--for all the trouble it caused her. When Astrid shut the door behind her Gwyneira’s words came out in a rush.

 

“Look, I know I took off and didn’t say anything. Things have been really strange and I know we didn’t meet on the best of terms,” she rambled, pointing back and forth between herself and Astrid, “What with me killing your contract and you kidnapping me but I’d like to think we’d moved passed that and I’m really very sorry for not coming back before now.”

 

“It’s been several weeks,” Astrid told her. She shook her head. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. You did a good job. It was clean and, despite your disappearance, you completed it in a timely manner. And,” Astrid grinned, “you went above and beyond for the client. Nice work.”

 

Gwyneira nodded but felt her stomach roll and forced a thin smile on her face. 

 

“We have bigger problems here, though,” the Nord informed the brunette.

 

The Breton frowned. “Like what?”

 

“It's Cicero,” Astrid admitted. “Ever since he arrived, his behavior's been...Well, erratic would be an understatement.” Gwyneira let out a snort, which was quelled by the scowl that took over Astrid’s placid features.

 

“Sorry, not a joke. Serious,” the girl mumbled, ducking her head.

 

“I do believe he is truly mad,” the Sanctuary Mother said, her brows knitted together and Gwyneira refrained from speaking. “But it's worse than that. He's taken to locking himself in the Night Mother's chamber, and talking. To someone. In hushed, but frantic tones. Who is he speaking with? What are they planning? I fear treachery.” 

 

Gwyneira took a step back. “Why are you telling me this? Why not Veezara. Or Arnbjorn?”

 

“First, because I am asking you. Second, you’ve been gone while Cicero has been here. There is no way he could have been speaking to you. I know without a shadow of a doubt that you are not involved. As for Arnbjorn, I know he would never be a part of any conspiracy against me, but he tends to be more...aggressive than what I feel this situation calls for.”

 

Gwyneira tilted her head and shrugged and smothered a chuckle. She then sucked on the inside of her lip and tilted her face up to the other woman. “Astrid,” she began, “I want you to understand I have the best of intentions saying this. But...this sounds a little paranoid.”

 

Astrid began to pace. “I know. I know it sounds insane, but don’t you see? He could use his position as the Night Mother’s keeper to claim we’re heretical, that we’ve forgotten the old ways and that we need to go back. It doesn’t work like that anymore.”

 

The Breton continued to keep her eyes on Astrid as the woman became more and more agitated. She stopped her pacing and held Gwyneira by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. Gwyneira sucked in a breath. “This place, this Family, means everything to me. I will not let Cicero undermine us like that.”

 

The younger woman nodded. “I understand,” she murmured as she bit the inside of her cheek. She inhaled, filling her lungs with the damp air of the bedroom, notes of nightshade and deathbell perfuming it, and she let it out. “What do you need me to do?”

 

Astrid smiled, her gaze softening and Gwyneira felt a tug at her own lips. Astrid stepped back and crossed her arms over her chest and resumed her movements, but leisurely this time, no longer buzzing with frenetic energy. “I need you to sneak into Cicero’s rooms while he meets with whoever he’s conspiring with.”

 

“So, break in and hide?”

 

“Sort of. You can’t just hide in there. Even if you just stick to the shadows, there’s no way you’re going to be able to fool them.” 

 

Gwyneira bristled, but knew that Astrid was right. They were a group of trained assassins. And she...wasn’t. Not really. “Then...what should I do?”

 

“You’ll have to hide somewhere they won’t think to look. Somewhere they’d never suspect.”

 

The Breton narrowed her eyes when Astrid dropped her gaze. 

 

“What is it?”

 

“You...probably won’t like this.”

 

“I’ve very much disliked a lot of things lately. What’s one more thing?”

 

“You’ll need to hide inside the Night Mother’s coffin.”

 

“I’m sorry, you want me to what?” Gwyneira asked Astrid, who appeared strangely timid. 

 

“I know it’s an unorthodox order, but it’s the only way we can make sure Cicero isn’t plotting something. You have to get inside that coffin.”

 

Gwyneira felt her stomach turn and she frowned, her lips turned down and her eyes wide. “Isn’t that...somewhat disrespectful?” She winced. “And kind of disgusting?”

 

“Look, you need to do this. It’ll just be for a few moments.”

 

“And what if Cicero finds out? He’ll fillet me!”

 

“If anything goes wrong I’ll be standing by to keep you safe.”

 

“Says the woman who’s not going to be hiding in an occupied coffin from an unstable, knife-wielding jester.” Astrid went to open her mouth but Gwyneira shook her head and sighed. “No, I’ll do it. Of course I’ll do it. If he’s planning something, we should know about it. Because of the filleting.” She shivered. “But I won’t like it. At all. And I vehemently oppose this.”

 

Astrid smiled. “Noted.”

  
  
  


 

Gwyneira entered the Night Mother’s room and went over to the metal coffin with a lock pick readied. Gently testing the tumblers and holding her breath, she knocked them into place and slipped inside, the smell of oils, she suspected one was myrrh, and the familiar scent of decay. She faced the slight corpse of the coffin’s occupant and mouthed an “I am so sorry” to the dead woman. 

 

She heard the door outside opening and Cicero’s humming waft through the air and he began to ramble. 

 

“Are we alone?” he asked. “Yes, I’m sure we are. Sweet Solitude! And they’re coming around, I know it! The old man, Festus Krex, maybe the Argonian….and the un-child…” Gwyneira heard him take in a shuddering breath. “And what about you? Sweet Mother...have you spoken to anyone yet?” Silence, and then. “No...of course not. I do the talking, and the stalking, and the spying….And you’re silent! Why won’t you speak, Mother? Not--not that I’m angry.” Gwyneira felt a little sorry for the Imperial; he sounded near tears.

 

Then she remembered what would happen if he saw her in there.

 

“Poor Cicero,” she heard. She shook her head, just slightly; it was easy to imagine things in cramped spaces. 

 

“But he will never hear me speak.” This time she knew she heard something and she turned her face to see if the coffin had come open, even though she was still shrouded in darkness. “Such a humble servant,” was whispered into her ear and she had to swallow her retch. “He will never hear my voice, for he is not the Listener.”

 

Gwyneira felt an icy fist grab ahold of her heart and twist. She was aware of Cicero asking how he could exert the Night Mother’s will if she would not speak to him. Gwyneira went hot and clammy and felt her clothes stick to her feverish flesh. 

 

“But I will speak,” the Night Mother whispered. “I will speak to you, for you are the one. Yes, you. You, who shares my iron tomb, who warms my ancient bones. I’ve been waiting for such a long time,” the murmur trembled and Gwyneira gagged. “Go to Volunruud and speak to an Amaund Motierre for he has need of us,” and Gwyneira was sure she heard a laugh. “Fitting for one such as you. And tell Cicero, ‘Darkness rises when silence dies.’”

 

Gwyneira then stumbled and she cringed at the clang it made against the metal coffin and she felt a cool breeze as the door was wrenched open by Cicero. She let out a soft scream when he dragged her out of it by her hair. 

 

“What is this?” he shouted. “Treachery! Defiler, debaser and defiler!” 

 

He flung her to the ground where she rolled herself upright and held up her hands. He brandished his dagger. “Explain yourself,” he screeched, spittle flying from his whitened lips.

 

“It-it wasn’t what it looked like,” she started, drinking in huge gulps of air and ignoring the way her voice caught in her throat. “I heard a voice! Coming from...inside my head.” She tripped retreating from him and she watched as he observed her, his dagger still poised ready to strike. “Something about darkness rising when silence dies?” she uttered. “What does that even mean?”

 

Cicero stopped glaring. “She said those words. She said those words to you?” he questioned, swallowing and her eyes followed the way his throb bobbed. “Then it’s finally happened. She’s chosen a Listener.” 

 

Then he did something she would not have expected from anyone in the Sanctuary.

 

He crushed her to him in a hug, dagger still in hand and her hands hung by her side. “Oh, happy day,” he cried as he pressed his face into her hair while she struggled. She jumped when she heard another door slam open, the sound of wood against stone filling the Night Mother’s chamber and rattling the shelves along the wall.

 

“What is going on here?” she heard Astrid shout from the doorway. 

 

“This isn’t what it looks like either,” Gwyneira mumbled when she saw that both Astrid and Veezara had burst into the chamber. “I promise.”

 

“I’ll ask again: what on Nirn is going on?” the blonde asked with her arms crossed, foot tapping on the ground. 

 

Veezara stood to the side, his own dagger still unsheathed. “I heard shouting,” he explained. “I was passing by, saw Astrid, and then…” he trailed off, gesturing towards them with his dagger.

 

“What happened?” Astrid repeated. “Back away from her, fool. Whatever you’ve been planning is over. Gwyneira, are you alright?

 

“The silence has been broken! The Night Mother has chosen a Listener,” Cicero gushed, still clinging on to the Breton.

 

“It’s really nice that you’re not trying to kill me anymore, Cicero, but do you think you could let me go? I can’t really breathe.”

 

The Imperial gave her one final squeeze and released her. She teetered back and clambered closer to Astrid. 

 

“The Night Mother spoke?” Astrid asked, face paling.

 

“Cicero heard this one speak the binding words. She spoke, and the little Breton is our new Listener.”

 

“Hey, I’m not little. I’m average size for a Breton,” Gwyneira interrupted. Astrid shot her a look and Gwyneira stepped back. 

 

“The Night Mother spoke...to you?” Astrid questioned, forehead creased. 

 

“Yes?” When she saw Astrid’s frown deepen, she rushed, “But I could have been imagining things. Everyone in my family is a little touched in the head. Moonstruck, that sort of thing. I could be too for all I know. It’d explain a lot,” she rambled, twisting her hands in her robes. 

 

“You said the binding words,” Astrid said.

 

“Maybe I’m also psychic?”

 

“I doubt that,” Astrid muttered. Turning towards Cicero she sighed, “She can’t be the Listener. That’s impossible.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

 

“But it’s true, it’s true! The Night Mother has spoken, the silence has been broken! The Listener has been chosen!”

 

“Calm down there,” Gwyneira said. “Please don’t try to help.” She glanced up at Astrid and worried her lip, eyes flickering between Astrid and the floor. 

 

“What is it?”  she grit out.

 

Gwyneira twisted her mouth to the side, nibbling on the corner of her mouth, and she huffed. “I--I may have heard the Night Mother say we need to find an Amaund Motierre. Some place called Volunruud,” she admitted. “It’s probably nothing. Just that delirium flaring up again,” she laughed, weakly. 

 

But Astrid appeared pensive. 

 

“Should I go check it out?” she asked.

 

“No!” Astrid snapped. Gwyneira jumped and Astrid sighed, and wrung her hands together. “Not--not right now. You might be the Listener, but I’m still the leader of this Family.” Gwyneira nodded. “I’m--I’m sorry,” the blonde said, and she massaged her temples with her fingers. “I’m just--I need to think about this. This is a lot to take in.”

 

“She said to the one who just had a dead woman speak inside her head,” Gwyneira muttered. 

 

Astrid cracked a small smile and nodded. “Yes, indeed.” She took in a deep breath and exhaled. “I’ll come to you when I figure out what to do.” The blonde patted Gwyneira on the shoulder and held it for a moment before she took her hand back. “I am still the leader of this Sanctuary. I will not have my authority be so easily dismissed,” she said, turning on her heel and sweeping out of the room. 

 

Gwyneira watched her go with a pit in her stomach. She felt a cool palm come to rest on her scapula and turned her head to see Veezara beside her. 

 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked and she nodded. 

 

Cicero again approached her and Veezara took a half-step in front of the woman and she flushed. 

 

“I think it’s fine,” she mumbled to the Argonian.

 

“Of course it is!” Cicero insisted. “I would never harm the Listener. Mother and I have been searching for you for so long.”

 

“Seems like there’s a lot of that going around,” she said under her breath. Both Cicero and Veezara glanced at her, but she shrugged his hand off and laughed, the sound grating in the quiet room. 

 

Veezara was the first to speak again. “You’ve been gone for some time. You should get some rest. I think it’s Babette’s turn to do the cooking, so the food will be good,” he chuckled. “She’s a big fan of the Gourmet, so she uses a lot of his recipes.”

 

Gwyneira cracked a grin. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt. I think I’ll lay down for a bit first. I’ll just sleep where I land.”

 

“Good plan.” And he winked at her. 

 

Her smile widened and she stretched her arms over her head. “I’ll see you both later,” she said and nodded towards Cicero. 

 

She made her way down the stone corridor until she reached the living chambers and flopped down on the bed she remembered sleeping on during her first day at the Sanctuary. The smell of dust and stale air still lingered in the sheets, and the first thing she planned to do when she woke--after eating--was change the linens. 

  
  


 

 

* * *

 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have an update. Managed to get this out in some semblance of being on-time. A lot more happened in this chapter, so I'm hopeful that makes up for the lack of action in the previous one. Thank you all for being so patient while I try to get my writing life together xD The continued reception of this piece has kept me going with all of the editing and the drafting and the agonising; it really does just mean so much to me. Things have been a little wild in real life, so updates I know were getting a bit sporadic, but I'm doing my best to get back on track.
> 
> As always, I edit my own stuff and sometimes (a lot of times) mistakes slip through. I'd like to apologise in advance. I try to catch them before I post, but...you've all seen how that goes. 
> 
> If you all want more of my foolishness, you can check me out on [Tumblr](silencebrulant.tumblr.com/) where I post my garbage thoughts and snippets of WIPs that may or may not get published.


	8. The First Branch, Chapter Seven: Song for the Dead

Gwyneira had settled into a nice little routine in the Falkreath Sanctuary over the past few days. She woke up early enough and tried to make herself useful around the place and in the evenings she would help Babette with her alchemical experiments. Arnbjorn still hadn’t quite warmed up to her, but the others seemed to take her presence well, even Festus was congenial enough.

 

Well, he hadn’t melted her face off, which she considered progress.  

 

Nazir had sent her out on a couple contracts since the Night Mother incident, as she had taken to calling it. At least the last one had been a couple of vampires.

 

She sighed and stared at the waterfall as she sat on the ground in the large living space with her knees tucked under her chin and arms wrapped around them. The water splashed into the small pool below it and tully fog rolled off of it, and the air was damp and seemed to penetrate her clothing. She should have worn the leather armor everyone else was instead of her robes. Though, she thought, the shrouded robes Festus and Gabriella wore didn’t seem to have the same issues that hers did. 

 

“Are you doing alright, Sister?” she heard Veezara ask as he took a seat next to her.

 

She nodded, pulling her hood around her a little tighter. “Just a bit cold, but I like this spot.”

 

“I do too. I used to get it uncontested until you came along,” he chuckled, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

 

She stuck her tongue out. “There’s enough room here. It’s a big spot.”

 

“True.” She heard him sigh. “It reminds me of Black Marsh. A bit.”

 

“I just like it because the water is pretty,” she said, a smile tugging at her lips.

 

He laughed. “Do you have anywhere that reminds you of home?” he asked.

 

“Most of Skyrim actually.” At his puzzled looked, she continued. “I’m from Bruma. It’s not all that different, really. Snow, Nords, they have that here too. In abundance.” She shrugged. “I like the snow, but it’s colder here. Bitter. There’s also more Imperial influence in Bruma, but I guess that’s to be expected.”

 

“Do you ever want to go back?”

 

She turned to look at Veezara and shook her head. “No, not really. I miss it, but there isn’t much left for me there. My father’s in good hands.”

 

“Is he sick?” he asked.

 

Gwyneira turned her gaze back towards the rippling water and mumbled, “Sort of.”

 

Veezara nodded and placed a hand on her shoulder. “That is unfortunate, Sister.”

 

She sighed and pressed her shoulder up into his palm. She gave him a little half-smile and then shrugged, rocking backward to pop up from the floor. Veezara got up as well but looked at her in askance. She rolled her eyes and mumbled, “I can’t really stay in one place too long. Cicero will find me and I can’t really handle him right now.”

 

He laughed at the woman’s plight. “He _has_ taken quite the shine to you.”

 

She glared at him. “You’ve noticed, have you?” she deadpanned.

 

“He has taken to following you around like a little lost puppy-dog,” Babette’s little voice rang out from the stairs above. 

 

Gwyneira jerked and cursed. “I didn’t even hear you there,” she accused.

 

“You weren’t meant to,” Babette said. Veezara laughed.

 

“Did you hear her?” Gwyneira asked. He shook his head, still laughing. “I’m going to put a bell on you, Babette,” she groused. “You’re way too quiet.”

 

Babette just grinned at Gwyneira, who grew clammy at the flash of fang she saw from the young face. “I did come here for a reason, you know,” Babette pointed out and Gwyneira frowned. “Astrid wants to see you.”

 

“She does?”

 

Babette nodded, a placid expression spreading over her features, while Gwyneira’s stomach tangled itself around her lungs.    


“I wouldn’t keep her waiting, Sister,” Veezara chimed in, glancing away towards the corridor that led to Astrid and Arnbjorn’s room. Gwyneira turned towards him and followed his gaze.

For the most part, Astrid had left Gwyneira alone over the last few days. To say that Gwyneira felt apprehensive about meeting with her after that amount of time was an understatement at best. She looked back up to Babette who tsked and shook her head. 

 

“I wouldn’t worry too much. If she really wanted you gone, she would have sicced Arnbjorn on you by now,” she laughed. 

 

Gwyneira grimaced. “You’re...probably right about that.” She inhaled and sighed, feeling it tickle her top lip and she rolled her shoulders. “I suppose I should see what she needs with me…” she trailed off. Both Veezara and Babette nodded and Babette laughed again. Gwyneira began to head towards Astrid’s chambers and cursed under her breath, the trickle of water fading behind her as she moved closer to her destination. 

 

 

She rapped on the chamber door in three sharp counts and waited, bouncing on the balls of her feet, until she heard a muffled “come in” in Astrid’s rich tones; she pushed the door open, creeping inside and she saw Astrid leaning over a small writing desk, her face pinched in concentration.

“Babette said you wanted to see me?” she queried. Astrid glanced up and nodded.

 

“I do. Come in. Have a seat,” the Nord told her, directing Gwyneira to a chair. 

 

She settled herself into it and waited for Astrid to speak. A couple beats passed before Astrid turned to face her and perched herself on her desk. 

 

“Something is happening here,” she said. “I'm not sure entirely what that something is, but…” she exhaled and shook her head. “Well, we need to find out. If the Night Mother really did give you an order to talk to a contact, we'd be mad to ignore it.” She let out a laugh, a sharp, harsh thing, before she continued. “And I think we'd both agree, Cicero's brought quite enough madness to this Sanctuary.”

 

Gwyneira snorted before bringing her hands up to her mouth and coughing, smothering the sound. She saw Astrid crack a small grin. 

 

“Not that I’m inclined to disagree with you, Astrid, but...why did you need to see me about this?” the brunette asked.

 

Astrid let out another sigh. “I’d like you to go to Volunruud. To meet this Motierre.” 

 

“You actually want me to go?”

 

The older woman fixed her with a pointed stare. “The Night Mother spoke to  _ you _ . I think

that warrants you the responsibility of...seeing where all of this leads.”  She smirked. “Don’t you think?”

 

The new Listener frowned. “Somehow, I don’t think you’re really asking for my input on this, are you?”

 

“I’m really not,” the blonde affirmed. 

 

“I thought so. So should I leave now, or later.”

 

Astrid appeared thoughtful for a moment and then glanced back down to Gwyneira. “You know, growing up, my mother always told me to never put off tomorrow what one can do today.”

 

Gwyneira nodded and scratched the back of her head. “I’ll just get my things together and head out then.”

 

“Good girl.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Why do they always want to meet in crypts?” Gwyneira asked herself as she slipped in through the metal door at the entrance of Volunruud. The air didn’t smell quite as stale as one might expect from an old tomb full of corpses and draugr. 

 

She wrinkled her nose. Of course, that didn’t mean it smelled great, either. 

 

Torches were still lit, so she thought that Motierre must have already arrived, or was still inside. The Night Mother, if that was who she actually heard, would probably have given her an update if he left.

 

Probably.

 

She felt the floor slip under her and the rattle of bones skid down the stairs as she balanced herself, gripping onto the stone that jutted from the wall closest to her, and she felt a twinge in her ankle and hissed as it shot up her calf. 

 

“Dead people these days,” she muttered, “just leaving their skeletons anywhere they please. Someone could get hurt.” Then she closed her eyes and let out a long exhale as she pressed her hand to her breastbone, the thudding behind it vibrating against her palm. “Stop talking to yourself. If Motierre hears you he’ll probably panic.” Then she opened her eyes and her mouth twisted. “Though, he probably should. He did contract the Dark Brotherhood. Seems strange if he didn’t panic a bit.” She huffed and shook her head. “Stop talking to yourself, damn it.”

  
  
  


Gwyneira reached the bottom of the staircase and saw a faint light glowing underneath a door that ran along the side. She raised her hand to knock, but then let out a little laugh and pushed it open. The hinge gave way more with less resistance than she thought it would and the door swung open, revealing a well-dressed man and, who appeared to be an Imperial Legionnaire. The man started and scoffed in what Gwyneira thought might be annoyance. She held off a glare of her own and crossed her arms. 

 

“So, you called?” she asked. “You Amaund Motierre?”

 

“The Dark Brotherhood, then? I certainly wasn’t expecting anyone else,” he said and she hated the way his posh accent grated on her ears. 

 

“Well, here I am,” she said, spreading her arms in front of her. “Now, what did you want with us all the way out here in the middle of nowhere. You know, where we couldn’t have met in an inn, or anywhere else.”

 

He scoffed at her and said, “If you knew who I was or how important this job is, you’d refrain from asking such a ridiculous question.”

 

“Excuse me,” she said, eyebrow twitching. “Just get to your point,” she said. “I came out all this way. I hate having my time wasted.”

 

“I’ll make this brief then,” he simpered. “I would like to arrange a contract with your organization. Several, actually. I daresay this job will be the most important work your little cult has had for...centuries.”

 

“I thought you said you’d make this brief,” she sneered, and she smirked when he bristled. 

 

“As I said,” he bit out. “I want you to kill several people. You will find that they, and their manners of elimination to be quite varied. I’m sure someone like you will think it rather enjoyable.”

 

She drew back and went to respond but Motierre spoke again. 

 

“These are, however, merely a means to an end. You see...this is all to pave the way for the real target: Emperor Titus Mede II.”

 

No sound passed between them for a beat or so, and Gwyneira replayed his words over and over in her head. 

 

“Is there a problem?” Motierre asked, his features fixed in a neutral expression, his eyes placid, and his brows arched.

 

The muscles in Gwynera’s throat worked up and down and she opened and closed her mouth several times, each time only allowing a puff of air to escape. Finally, she shook her head and stared at the man. “You want us to kill...the Emperor? Of Tamriel? Am I hearing that right?”

 

Motierre glared at her. “This is what you do, is it not?” he paused, appearing more anxious before he continued, “You must understand. So much has led to this day. So much planning, and maneuvering. Now, it's as if the very stars have finally aligned. But I digress. Here, take these. They need to be delivered to your, um... superior. Rexus,” he called behind him, clapping his hands, “the items.”

 

The Imperial made his way to Gwyneira and she gave him a slight grin and inclined her head to him, then tilted it in Motierre’s direction. A smile flit over the larger man’s face and he rolled his eyes as he dropped a small parcel in her hand, winking at her before he went back to his employer’s side. 

 

“That,” Motierre gestured towards Gwyneira, “is meant for your superior only. It includes a sealed letter that will detail the specifics of the contract, and the amulet is worth more than I dare say you’ve seen in your entire lifetime.”

 

Maybe the Night Mother wanted her to kill him instead, she wondered. But she sighed and bit her tongue. “I’ll make sure my  _ superior _ gets this,” she said, and wouldn’t Astrid be thrilled to hear the man refer to her as such, she thought. 

 

“Good, then I suppose you best get going,” he dismissed. 

 

“You really have no idea who I am, do you?” she murmured as her brow smoothed and her lips turned downward at the corners. “No idea where I’ve come from,” she laughed, the sharp sound echoing in the chamber.

 

“And should I?” he questioned, tapping his foot.

 

“No, not really.”

 

Gwyneira shot another look to Rexus, who shrugged, and she shook her head and left the two men in the dark. 

  
  
  
  


It was ironic, she thought as she made her way out of the tomb, that two centuries ago the Sauveterre’s--well, one at least--played a major role in keeping the Emperor of Tamriel alive until he--brilliantly, she decided--sacrificed himself to save the world, and now here one is working to kill him. She wondered what her father would think. 

 

Was that actually considered irony? She could never remember.

 

It would probably be best if he never found out, she figured. Not that there was much of a chance of that happening; it wasn’t as if she could go back home. Not now. 

 

In the back of her mind, she wondered what Felicienne would have thought about the situation and swept the notion away. She was long dead anyway. Rotting somewhere unknown. Couldn’t do a damn thing about it anymore. 

 

She had to get back to Astrid, and she shoved the little package into her satchel and began to make her way south. 

 

* * *

 

 

An eerie glow and shrieks echoed through the valley as she came upon Riverwood. She was unsure of what she heard until the scent of scorched carbon and burning wood and grass-stained the air and the smoke stung her eyes. She ran to get closer and she choked on the acrid breeze, and a dragon swooped down into the village, scooping up a guard whose screams stuck in her ears. 

 

She didn’t see him come back down. 

 

The other guards shouted for the villagers who did not have weapons to get back inside, and the odor of charred flesh hit her nostrils and she gagged. She stumbled into the village center, and tripped over the blackened remains of what would have been a leg and she had to cover her nose and mouth with her palm and take a deep breath, quelling the churning bile that bubbled in her throat.

 

She misstepped, and slipped over a slick spot on the road and the dragon turned toward her, nostrils flaring and out of instinct--and not a little fear--she Shouted at him, and he broke his stride. The guards fell on him with arrows, and a few--more daring souls--with swords, and Gwyneira shot her lightning bolts at him. He attempted to fly off when she Shouted again, weaker and less precise but still enough to tear and rip at her throat, and again, the dragon staggered. She felt the press of metal against her as soldier swarmed around him, bloodied and covered in viscera, and a humid gust washed over her face as the dragon snapped at them, and a guard ran his sword through the roof of his mouth. She watched as the dragon’s eye rolled back into his head and flutter shut, and he gave a final sigh as he evaporated in a smoldering of shimmering scales and stinging wind that rushed around her body. When she could breathe again, she looked around the village. 

 

The village that housed her when she escaped from Helgen, where Hadvar’s aunt and uncle lived. 

 

She inhaled sharply, and searched for their familiar forms, and in her pursuit she heard someone sobbing in loud, gasping wails. She followed the sound and found Hadvar’s family with another woman. 

 

“Oh, thank Akatosh you arrived when you did,” Alvor said, getting up to give Gwyneira a hug. Red patched spread over his skin, the flesh raw and exposed, and his face marred with dirt, but he appeared well enough otherwise. She stiffened in his hold, but nodded all the same, patting him on his shoulder. She saw that Sigrid still knelt with the other woman, who was cradling something.

 

“Gudrun,” she heard Sigrid murmur. “You have to let him go.” The other woman’s sobbing only increased and Sigrid’s gentle urging. 

 

“What’s happened?” Gwyneira rasped to Alvor, who looked ashen. 

 

“She--she and her family, they were from Helgen, some of the refugees from,” he paused, the muscles in his throat working, “that day,” Alvor began. “Despite the extra guards, we were unprepared for that dragon. Her husband was one of the first to--” Another cry cut him off and he winced, covering his face with his rough hand. 

 

Gwyneira teared up, but rubbed her eyes and felt the grit of soot and dirt scratch at her lids and blinked the saline away. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, sniffling, but Alvor shook his head.

 

“That isn’t the worst of it, believe it or not.” Alvor sighed, his face drawn and the lines around his eyes and mouth more pronounced. She heard his voice crack as he forced out the next words. “Her little boy got caught in the middle of...in the middle of it later.”

 

She flinched, a weight settled into her stomach and the ground seemed to turn to liquid, shifting and swaying under her feet. Everything burned, like shocks along exposed nerves, and she could feel each pass the hemline of her woolen robes made against the tops of her knees and her wrists. She looked back towards the woman and Sigrid, as Sigrid rubbed the sobbing woman’s back while she held onto what Gwyneira now knew were the blackened remains of her son. The world spun for a moment, and Alvor caught her by her shoulders. 

 

“Is Dorthe alright?” she asked him. He nodded and she exhaled. “I’m so sorry,” her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. “I’m so, so sorry.”

 

“Don’t be, girl. If you hadn’t gotten here--”

 

“I didn’t even really do anything,” she insisted. 

 

He held her by the shoulders, gripping them more tightly now, and he gave her a gentle shake. 

  
“Yes. Yes you did. If you hadn’t come by this way, who knows how long this could have taken, how many more we might have lost.”

 

She glanced at the road and nodded. “Yeah,” she muttered. “If I hadn’t arrived.” She felt that weight roll around inside of her, taking her stomach with it, and she bit down on the inside of her cheek, gnawing on the soft flesh and cutting it on a tooth. She brought her arms around her waist and shivered. Her stomach turned as she tasted the copper that trickled down her burnt oesophagus. 

 

“You’ll stay here for the night. It’s dark and the road isn’t safe for travelers. Especially young women,” Alvor stated, his voice breaking into her fog. 

 

Gwyneira winced. “You just spoke about how much I helped kill a dragon, and now you’re insisting I stay because of some bandits and highwaymen?” she 

 

He glared at her. “Exactly, you helped to kill a dragon. You’re bound to be exhausted. Easy pickings for lowlives.” She rolled her eyes but he held a hand up. “Hadvar’s left for Solitude, but you are more than welcome to stay with Sigrid and I. Dorthe would love to see you. I won’t take no for an answer.”

 

She peered back to Gudrun, who was now being forced to relinquish her son’s body for burial, with Sigrid holding onto the woman, and Gwyneira nodded. “Fine,” she mumbled. “I have to leave first thing in the morning though.”

 

“Of course. Wouldn’t dream of keeping you. But at least let us feed you, you’ve lost some weight since I’ve seen you.”

 

“Yeah, it’s this amazing thing called no decent food and living off of stamina potions,” she joked.

 

Alvor shook his head and lead her towards his house, with him giving a small nod to Sigrid who left to walk Gudrun home. Alvor said she would be back soon and then they would eat. 

 

“That would be nice,” she admitted. “I’d kill for a sweetroll let alone a full meal.”

 

“No sweetrolls today, unfortunately, but Sigrid did make chicken dumplings--”

 

“Oh gods, yes,” she agreed, a real smile blooming over her lips. “My mum used to make those; I haven’t had any for over a year. I’ll absolutely stay for the evening. Don’t have to ask me twice,” she paused and furrowed her brow, “I mean, except that you just did, but--yeah, I’ll stay.”

 

“I’m glad we can satisfy your fancy Breton palate,” he teased. 

 

She rolled her eyes as they arrived at his home, the homey atmosphere warming more than her aching muscles. 

 

* * *

 

 

Morning came, and when it did--with its bright light and fresh zephyr clearing out the bitter smoke and ash from the previous evening--Gwyneira had made sure she was packed and she heard the air outside fill and burst with murmurings and hurried movement. She stepped out, shucking on her boots and outer robes on the way, and found Sigrid, who was crying on the river bank, surrounded by a fair few other villagers.  

 

“Did something else happen?” she asked while her stomach clenched.

 

Sigrid looked down at her and nodded, her eyes red-rimmed and bright. “It’s Gudrun,” she started. “They found her.”

 

“Found her?”

 

“She--she drowned, they think late last night or very early this morning.”

 

“Drowned?” Gwyneira asked, blinking once, twice as Sigrid stayed quiet, but nodded--her gaze flickering towards the waterlogged form--and seemed to shrink in on herself. Gwyneira crossed her arms and watched the townsfolk gather there, on that river bank, and scowled. 

 

It was morbid, she decided, they all wanted to see what had happened. She supposed it wasn’t it enough that they’d just been attacked by a dragon last night.

 

“What was that?” Sigrid queried, her face pinched. 

 

Gwyneira shook her head. She must have thought out loud again.  “Sorry,” Gwyneira sighed. “I had a thought. That’s all.” She eyed the villagers and patted her satchel, feeling its weight against her hip and her fingers ran over the slight bulge she found. “I hate leaving like this; I do,” she bit her lip, “but there really is something I must take care of. It’s to do with...this. It is,” she insisted. “I’ll--er--I won’t be a stranger.”

 

Sigrid sniffled and cleared her throat. “Make sure that you’re not.” Then, the woman winced and reached out to hold Gwyneira’s arm. “Listen, when you first came here, with Hadvar, and you were showing Dorthe your--your magic, I might have--”

 

“Hey,” she interrupted. “Don’t worry about it. No hard feelings. You’re not...you’re not the first, and I doubt you’ll be the last. I don’t hold it against you.” She sighed and ran her hand through her hair. “I have to go. Tell Alvor and Dorthe I said good-bye?”

 

Sigrid gave a watery smile and nodded, and Gwyneira mumbled a “thanks.” 

 

Gwyneira stood outside the village for a moment and listened to the wind ruffle the leaves and branches, the sounds of the villagers muffled by the rustling foliage. Her shoulder ached under the strain of her bag, and she shifted the burden to her other side, hearing the loud clang of phials collide against each other and the crinkle of sealed parchment, and Gwyneira looked towards the horizon where Magnus peeked over the Throat of the World. She rubbed her fist over her eyes and slumped, before she trudged along the road, her footsteps heavy on the dirt path.

 

* * *

 

 

“Here,” Gwyneira announced after she arrived at High Hrothgar and found Arngeir. “Here’s your horn.” She thrust the item to him and crossed her arms. “What do I need to do now?”

 

Arngeir raised his eyebrows. “You were gone for some time, Dragonborn. We nearly thought you had changed your mind.”

 

“I did,” she told him. “Now I’m changing it back.”

 

“It doesn’t speak well of you to be so fickle.”

 

“I’m not fucking fickle,” she snarled. Her face heated and she clenched her fists at her side. “Next time destiny or whatever decides to piss all over your plans, come talk to me about being fickle.” Her eyes stung and she sniffled and pressed the back of her sleeve against them. “Look, I hate this. I hate everything about this.” 

 

She coughed and exhaled, running her hands up and down her arms as she paced in a small circle in front of the man. “You have no idea how much I hate this whole thing. But people are dying. Just,” she stopped and hugged herself, “people are dying. And apparently, I’m the only one who can help. According to everyone else, anyway.” She scowled at the ground. “Just fucking tell me what I need to do.”

 

The Greybeard regarded her for a moment, and she thought he might turn her away. Several moments passed, but she stood there, her feet planted on the stone floor and fists clenched by her side, and he gestured for her to follow him. He led her into the main atrium where the other Greybeards were, in the middle of the cavernous room, the light twisting against the wooden beams that blocked it out. 

 

“Here, you will learn the final part of Unrelenting Force,” he explained to her. He motioned for one of the men--Wulfgar, she recalled--to step forward. Wulfgar whispered “ _ dah _ ” to the floor, and glowing letters etched themselves into the stone. 

 

Gwyneira swallowed and moved to stand in front of the last part of the phrase, and felt that rushing sensation move through her, leaving her head buzzing and her eyes aching as she stumbled away from it, her chest tight and her ribcage felt as though it would crack should she breathe the deep gulps of air she wanted to. Gwyneira steadied herself and rubbed her temples.

 

She directed her gaze to Arngeir once more. “So?” she asked, panting, but still on her feet. “Now what?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update, another place for me to apologise for this xD But really, I think just the more I write, the more my own writing drives me crazy. This chapter felt weird, but I had to get it out. I promise, all of the weird stuff does serve a purpose. Eventually. This is more experimental than Fortune's Favorite, so I think it makes me more nervous. 
> 
> And honestly, a HUGE thank you to everyone who's left comments and kudos. Bless you guys for hanging with this story, especially since it's going to be a rather long road. I do my best to respond to all of the comments, because it's just so thoughtful that anyone would take the time out of their day to write one in the first place; that really means a lot to me. I mean it. You all make me smile like an idiot all day. 
> 
> As always, keep up with my trash here on [Tumblr](https://silencebrulant.tumblr.com/) if you want to see more of this nonsense.


	9. The First Branch, Chapter Eight: Scattered to the Winds

Gwyneira laid on her rented bed in Vilemyr Inn and counted the knotholes in the wooden planks of the ceiling. It had been ten days since she was in Falkreath and the weight from Motierre’s parcel weighed her bag down. It was only a matter of time before Astrid or someone else from the Dark Brotherhood hunted her down. They did before; she had no illusions that they couldn’t do it again. And she really shouldn’t chance staying on Astrid’s good side right now; she was already on edge with Gwyneira’s supposed-status as Listener.

 

It wasn’t like she even wanted it. What did it even really entail? She wasn’t able to get that much out of Cicero, despite his propensity now for following her around the sanctuary.

 

She huffed and dragged a pillow over her face. She should have just stayed in Cyrodiil. Why did she even bother coming to Skyrim? Why did she even think it was a good idea to try to get to High Rock in the first place? There probably wasn’t even anything left of the Sauveterre family in Jehanna. It was a stupid endeavor.

 

Her eyes burned and she sniffled. She would need to leave sooner rather than later. It wouldn’t do to have both the Brotherhood and what was left of the Blades pissed at her. She might as well try to appease one of them.

 

And to be fair, one had a longer reach than the other.

 

She pulled the pillow down and hugged it to her chest. It had already been ten days, what was one more?

 

 

* * *

 

  


“Sister, you’re back!” Veezara exclaimed upon seeing Gwyneira walk through the entry hall.

 

She looked up and widened her eyes. “I am, yes.”

 

Veezara frowned at her. “It has been quite sometime now, you know.” He folded his arms in front of him and leaned back against the wall. “You picked a bad time to to take the scenic route; Astrid’s been becoming more and more anxious since you left.” Veezara sighed and walked towards the girl, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “You have to admit, it doesn’t look too good.”

 

Gwyneira nodded, face warming, but swallowed and blinked a few times. “I know, I’m very sorry. Some things just came up. There was a dragon attack and...something just kind of--”

 

“Ah,” he interjected, “in Riverwood, yes? News has spread here too about that. You got held up by it then?”

 

She quirked a brow and glanced down. “Yeah, you could say that.”

 

He didn’t say anything, just tightened his arm around her briefly before letting go and stepping back. “You might want to head to Astrid’s room. Maybe try to smooth things over,” he said, giving her a small wink. She returned it with a little half-grin and nodded.

 

The sounds of the other members’ voices drifted around the open chambers, but they seemed to hush when she walked past Nazir and Babette, and Arnbjorn scowled at her. She ducked her head and kept walking towards Astrid’s room.

 

“You’re very late,” she heard upon entering the Matron’s quarters.

 

“Yes, I apologize. Time got away from me--”

 

“Save it,” Astrid snapped. “Who do you think you are? You might be the so-called Listener, but I am still the leader of this Sanctuary. The only functioning sanctuary in Tamriel, for that matter. You will respect me.”

 

“I do, really, Astrid. I won’t--I won’t do this again. I mean it,” she told the older woman. “I don’t want to be a leader. I’m not trying to--to disrespect you. Or anything like that. I promise.”

 

“You need to do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”

 

Gwyneira nodded, her hair whipping around her face and her neck straining. “Yes, I do,” she insisted. “I met with Motierre. He gave me this,” she held out the package to Astrid, “and told me that he had enclosed a list of instructions.”

 

Astrid took the offered parcel and went over to her desk. “What did he want, anyway, if he went through all the trouble of doing the Black Sacrament.”

 

Gwyneira huffed and ran her fingers through her hair. “He wants us to kill the Emperor.”

 

Astrid drew back, her eye unblinking. “The Emperor? Of Tamriel?”

 

“See, that’s what I said.”

 

Astrid rifled through the parcel’s contents and laughed. “This amulet looks expensive. And real.” She took the letter out and slid her dagger under the seal, and deft fingers unfolded the note and Gwyneira saw her eyes move line by line as she read Motierre’s request. “By Sithis, you weren’t joking,” Astrid exclaimed. “The Dark Brotherhood hasn’t attempted something like this since the assassination of Pelagius. In fact, no one has, not since the murder of Uriel Septim.” She scoffed, “and that was two hundred years ago. If we do this,” she said, “we would find ourselves back on top.”

 

“So...we’re accepting it, then?” Gwyneira ventured.

 

“You’re damn right we’re accepting it. You think I’d pass up on an opportunity to lead my family to glory?” She sighed and rubbed her forehead. “There is...quite a bit to arrange though, and I’ll need time to read the letter carefully. Here,” she tossed the amulet to Gwyneira, who fumbled to catch it and Astrid’s lip curled. “Take this to an...associate of mine. His name’s Delvin Mallory, lives in the Ratway in Riften. You remember how to get to Riften, don’t you?” She smirked, even as Gwyneira’s face burned and jaw clenched. “Have him appraise it and see if it’s worth anything. If it is, he’ll offer a line of credit.” She paused and raised her eyebrows at Gwyneira, her gaze hard. “Try not to take too long this time, if you don’t mind. This is a delicate situation.”

 

Cowed, the brunette nodded, feet stuck to the ground.

 

“You can go now,” Astrid dismissed her, waving her off.

 

* * *

 

 

The trip to Riften had been...nerve wracking, to say the least.  Any time a guard had passed her, Gwyneira felt as though she might jump out of her skin. The Ratway was worse. She’d thought the Falkreath Sanctuary dank and musty, but the Ratway had that in spades. She could still smell the city sewer on her clothing, but at least she had Mallory’s line of credit in her possession, ready for Astrid’s use, as well as the information Mallory gave her about the amulet in the first place.

 

She groaned under her breath and ran her fingers through her hair. What a mess, she thought, that she should wind up where she did. Dragonborn and assassin, plotting to kill the Emperor of Tamriel. It was like one of those bad melodramas her mother liked to watch on stage, or a joke that took too long to get to the punchline.

 

She thought she might be that punchline.

 

She glanced towards the south and saw billowing thunderheads loom above the horizon. She groaned and buried her face in her hands, feeling the sway of the cart beneath her. On top of it all, it looked like rain. She couldn’t stop now, not truly. She was sure she’d used up all of Astrid’s patience, and the woman would be chomping at the bit to hear what Gwyneira had learned. She’d have to conclude her trip as quickly as possible. And she’d have to walk the rest of the way from Falkreath’s gates to the sanctuary.

 

She rubbed her face and sighed.

  
  


Gwyneira cursed as rainwater drenched her doublet and boots, the water sloshing between her toes, and she cringed at the squelching noise her steps made. Sometimes, she hated making the trip back down to Falkreath; she would have preferred snowfall over the violent torrent that plagued her now. She grew closer to the enclosure of trees that shrouded the black door when she heard a soft voice drift just above the deluge. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a small, thin woman--a girl, really--with pale skin and dark hair that hung in wet clumps along her body and clung to her cheeks. She sat under a tree with her face turned upwards, water droplets rolling down her jawline.

 

Gwyneira stepped forward. “Are--are you alright, miss?” she called out. The woman grinned, teeth exposed, and she tilted her head to look at the other brunette.

 

“Oh hi,” she breathed. “What brings you here?”

 

Gwyneira frowned and held herself back. “Er, I’m here on...business. I’m travelling. What are you doing here? In this weather. Outside? In that?” she asked, pointing towards the woman’s thin white chemise, but averted her gaze from her form.

 

“I’m on holiday,” the woman told her, smile still stretched over her lips and it set Gwyneira’s teeth on edge.

 

“That’s--that’s nice,” Gwyneira forced out, frowning. She stepped toward her, holding up her hands, and the woman regarded her.

 

“Are you lost?” the girl asked, tilting her head to the side as she stared at Gwyneira.

 

Gwyneira shook her head as she dropped her arms and her face drained of colour. “No, I’m just--”

 

“Want me to walk you home?”

 

“No, er--I can manage fine, thanks.” Gwyneira glanced around, the water blurring her vision, and she strained her ears, but only heard the wind and water pouring through the trees and mud. “Lady, if you have somewhere to go, you should really head inside; you’ll catch your death out here.”

 

“I adore the rain,” the woman murmured. “I wanted to hear the raindrops singing to me. I like hearing the songs they sing.” She laughed and then bit her lip. “I used to sing him to sleep at night. He had such a sweet voice.” She trailed off and she started to hum, and her voice floated in the air, though it cracked and stuttered, and the only thing Gwyneira could make out were the words, “ _You can see by Torchbug's glow/Little Scrib, she's such a wonder_...” She stopped, her expression crumpling. “What did your mummy sing to you at night?”

 

Gwyneira’s stomach roiled and, despite the damp chill in the air, her skin flushed and her palms became clammy. Her throat bobbed to swallow around the lead ball stuck in it. She began to side-step back onto the road. “I--I really need to go,” she stammered. “I have a meeting to get to and all,” she told her, voice coming out strained and high. She shook her head and was about to break into a sprint when she heard the woman speak again.

 

“You’re right. I have a party to get to, and it’s terribly rude to keep my host waiting.” She sighed and shrugged her bony shoulders. “Do you think he’d like a gift?”

 

“I’m sure whatever you get will be fine.”

 

That brought a bright smile to the other brunette’s face. “He’s quite particular, but you might be right. Thank you,” she murmured, still smiling, still gazing at Gwyneira with her too-bright blue eyes and her too-wide grin. She waved and Gwyneira broke her stare, her eyes darting off to the side, towards the darkening thicket. “Off you go, then. I’ll see you soon.”

 

Gwyneira jerked her head back towards the girl with her words dying on her lips when she saw that nothing was there. Everything was silent and still. Even rain felt and sounded muffled. Water splashed onto her cheeks and rolled down her face, her hair plastered to her forehead and neck, and she shivered.

 

She ran the rest of the way back to the sanctuary.

  
  
  


She slammed the door open, causing Astrid to start.

 

“You would not believe the day I’ve already had,” she told the blonde, beginning to wring out her hair on the stone floor. She shucked off her soaked boots and picked them up to set by the fire. “I got to Mallory though,” she said and then dug around in her satchel and pulled out the note he had given her, “and he told me to give this to you. He said it’s a line of credit?”

 

Astrid snatched it up from Gwyneira’s outstretched hand and grinned. “Perfect! What did he say about the amulet, anyway?”

 

“So, it’s real. It’s really real. Mallory seemed pretty interested in selling it. Apparently it’s one that all the members of the Elder Council get. Guess Motierre’s a big-wig in the Imperial City. ”

 

Astrid appeared thoughtful before she cackled. “Now that explains quite a bit. Looking to move up and hiring the Dark Brotherhood to do so? Delicious.” The blonde rubbed her hands together, unable to contain what Gwyneira thought to be absolute glee. “Now, then, I suppose we’re ready to begin. Or, you’re ready to begin.”

 

Gwyneira blinked. “Me?”

 

“You’re the Listener,” Astrid reminded her with narrowed eyes and stiff words. Gwyneira nodded and pulled at the fabric of her robes, wincing as she felt them stick to her body and catch on the now-damp cloth of her robes. Astrid returned the nod and said, “Good.” She then walked over to a large table and opened up a note. “Well, I hope you have something nice to wear. Because you’re going to a wedding.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“A wedding. You’re going to one. The Emperor’s cousin’s wedding, actually.” Astrid tilted her head to the side and puckered her lips to the side. “Actually, it’s more like the public reception. It should be a lovely affair. You’ll mingle with the guests, eat some cake...stab the bride.” At Gwyneira’s confused look, Astrid chuckled. “Oh, yes, you’re to kill the bride at her own wedding. In public. And they say romance is dead,” she mused. “Her name is Vittoria Vici. She’s--”

 

“Oversees the East Empire Trading Company in Skyrim. I know.” Astrid glowered and Gwyneira ducked her head. “Sorry, my father used to work for them in Bruma, before, and--obviously--they do a lot of business with the Skyrim branch. Nice little administrative job.” She looked down. “I’ll be quiet now.”

 

“Anyway,” Astrid continued. “The wedding is being held in Solitude, at the Temple of the Divines. Her death will cause an uproar: exactly what we want.”

 

Gwyneira furrowed her brows and then her eyes widened. “The Emperor will have to show up. Wow.”

 

“Contracts like these have a lot of moving parts.”

 

“You don’t say.”

 

“It’s going to take everything we’ve got, but it will be well worth it in the end. Finally.” Then Astrid shook her head, a smile firmly in place. “Now, the wedding is in a week, so you don’t need to leave right away, but as you know, sooner is--”

 

“--better than later. I’ll leave first thing tomorrow. Just kind of want to dry off and sleep first, if that’s alright. It’s been a long trip already.”

 

“Of course. Get some food.”

 

“Don’t have to tell me twice. I’m starving.”

  
  


At dinner, she sat between Veezara and Babette, as Festus portioned out the stew Gabriela now cautiously sniffed at, and Gwyneira felt her lips twitch when the old man snapped at her, telling her it was perfectly fine to eat.

 

Babette sighed next to her, dipping her piece of bread into the gravy on her plate and turned towards Gwyneira. “It’s not fair, you getting to go to a wedding.”

 

“I’m sorry?” she said, fidgeting.

 

“Oh, don’t be. I just wish I’d get to go instead of having to scope out the location. You’re welcome, by the way.”

 

“Oh, er, sorry,” Gwyneira mumbled. “I mean, thank you. I...hope you didn’t go through much trouble…”

 

Babette giggled. “You’re so jumpy, Sister. Besides, no one really pays me much mind. I’m just a little girl, after all.”

 

Gwyneira paled a bit, but shook it off and nodded. “I suppose there’s that.”

 

“Anyway, I actually did want to mention something to you. You have to kill Vici publicly, but you probably don’t want to get caught, right?”

 

“Ideally, yes.”

 

Babette laughed again, and Gwyneira stared down at her plate, listening to the quiet chit chat between Astrid and Arnbjorn, and Veezara and Gabriela as Festus complained to Nazir. She wrung her hands in her lap, twisting the material of her dry clothing around her fingers and shivering as she thought back to the woman outside. She’d kept quiet about what she had come across, and, though she wouldn’t admit it, she wasn’t keen on heading back out.

  


However, with the way she felt Astrid’s eyes light on her every so often, she figured it might be best to leave after dinner. At least, if the rain had cleared.

 

_See you soon._

 

Gwyneira scoffed. Not fucking likely.

 

“There’s a statue,” Babette’s voice broke into her swirling thoughts, and Gwyneira jerked in her seat, her knee banging the table from underneath, rattling the dinnerware.

 

Her cheeks flushed, she glanced up and grimaced. “Sorry,” she mumbled, and turned back towards Babette. “A statue?”

 

Babette hummed and nodded. “Near the tower, where the bride and groom are supposed to be, when they address their guests. It’s old, and hasn’t been cared for very well. Be a shame if it collapsed on her.”

 

Gwyneira swallowed and looked back down at her food, watched the gravy run over the bread and potatoes that lay smashed and cooling on her plate, and saw the bubbles of grease and fat coagulate and merge.

 

“Yeah,” she muttered. “A real shame.”

 

* * *

 

  


Gwyneira arrived in Solitude--with a day to spare, thank you--and gazed at the rising stone homes and structures. It wasn’t quite as impressive as the Imperial City--of which she only saw once--but it was still rather marvelous in its own way. The cobblestone glittered in the light of Magnus and a frigid breeze wound through the city streets. She inhaled, feeling her chest expand, and she sighed, tilting her head from side to side until she heard a pop in her neck. The trip had been long and sitting in a cart for so many hours, even with the break to sleep, left her muscles and joints screaming. She would need to find an inn for the night too, which was just as well since she had to change into something more appropriate for a wedding feast.

 

She glanced down at her robes, muddied and wearing thin, and she screwed her eyebrows together; if she washed them now they might fall apart. She idly hoped that this job, for what it was, paid a fair amount of septims; the gold she still held from Muiri’s contract could only go so far. And with the way she kept hitching rides, it was a wonder she hadn’t run out sooner.

 

Noticing some of the stares she was getting, she flushed and ducked her head and continued her way down the road and saw that there appeared to be an inn--or at least a tavern--coming up on her left side. She pushed the door open and the heated air dispelled the chill from her clothing and soaked into her bones. She rubbed her hands together and walked up to the bar and was greeted by the publican.

 

“What can I do for you?” he asked her as he wiped out a metal mug.

 

“I need a room for the night. And day too, I guess,” she said, already fishing out her purse.

 

“Sure, there’s a room available. Ten gold a night.”

 

“Really? Wow,” she said, dropping the coins onto the counter. “That’s nothing. No offense.”

 

The man laughed. “None taken, friend. Keeps people coming back.”

 

She cracked a smile. “I bet. Some places are charging twenty gold a night, and they’re hardly worth writing home about.” Gwyneira sat down and ordered a pint of ale. After she took a swig, she waved him down again. “What do you have for food?”

 

“The usual,” he said. “Cheese, bread,” he paused and tapped his fingers on the bar, “oh, and we made some apple-cabbage stew, if you want something warm.”

 

“Yes, that last one,” she interjected. “I feel like I’ve spent this whole time freezing my ass off. And I thought Bruma was cold,” she told him while smiling.

 

“Ah, so you’re from the Imperial province,” he noted.

 

“Sure am. Lots of snow in Bruma, but happy snow. The snow here’s angry.”

 

He chuckled as he dished up her food and set it in front of her. “You get used to it after awhile.”

 

“Do you?” she asked after swallowing a spoonful, regarding him with cool eyes.

 

He shook his head. “Not really.”

 

She fell silent for a moment, concentrating on not eating as fast as she wanted. She was grateful for the warmth that spread from her stomach outwards. When she’d finished the stew, and now warm and pliant, she pushed the bowl away and grinned at the publican. “I hear a wedding is happening in Solitude,” she said. “An important one.”

 

He scoffed. “There is. The Vici/Snow-Shod wedding. Tomorrow morning,” he told her. “Had to make a big deal of it, couldn’t get married in Riften like the common rabble, now could they?”

 

She rolled her eyes shook her head. “I suppose not. Even in these times,” she said. “I’ve never been to a wedding, actually. Kind of always wanted to see one.”

 

“I guess you’ll get your chance now then. Reception’s public, from what I understand. Think they want to try to smooth things over with the Nords and Imperials, given what’s happened.”

 

Gwyneira nodded. “I suppose that makes sense.” She rubbed the back of her head. “You’d think people’d be more concerned about the dragons coming back instead of politics, right?”

 

“You’re not wrong,” he said.

 

She sighed. “Well, what’re you gonna do, right?” she muttered. She frowned, her forehead creasing as she chewed on her lower lip. “Actually,” Gwyneira started after a moment, “what exactly did happen? I know Stormcloak killed...King Torygg?” she questioned, thoughtful, and continued, “but I don’t really know anything else.”

 

He raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “I guess you wouldn’t, being from Cyrodiil. But you have most of it already. Ulfric Stormcloak marched right on in and murdered King Torygg in his own castle.”

 

Gwyneira grimaced. “Shit,” she breathed, holding her ale in front of her, but stopping before it reached her lips. “Why?”

 

“I imagine he wants to be be High King and, of course, secede from the Empire.”

 

“Wish I’d known that before I crossed the border,” she mumbled into her cup. “Can’t imagine either Cyrodiil or the Thalmor are terribly pleased about that.”

 

The publican shrugged. “I reckon they’re not.”

 

Gwyneira hummed on top of her drink, staring into it and watching the bubbles float to the top and pop on the surface. The steam from the stew rising in tendrils that curved around the glass and dissipated in the dry air. She breathed, and watched her breath ripple across the amber liquid, distorting her face.

 

* * *

 

 

The reception was a lavish affair. She snorted; of course it was. Vici was the Emperor’s cousin, after all. Partygoers tittered and spoke all around her, a couple of the women complimenting her on her dress. She hid a sneer at remembering the snotty high elf she’d had to deal with, but the dress _did_ look damn good, and she hated admitting that. She glanced back over at the couple sitting on the thrones before the audience, at Vici’s bridal gown, all delicate needlework and filmy cloth, and flower coronet and scoffed.

 

“Must be nice,” she mumbled, tucking her hair behind her ears and looking around. Her eyes wandered over the facade of Castle Dour, and she caught sight of crumbling statuary around the edges. One, conveniently, placed overhead of where she had heard that the bride and groom--and could now see--would be addressing their guests.

 

She slipped away as no one paid her any mind, and she made her way into the Temple of the Divines and up the stairs until she reached the wall near where the gargoyle was positioned. She didn’t have to wait long before the bride and groom headed towards their balcony, and Gwyneira hiked her skirts up between her legs and into her belt and pressed herself against the stone and waited. She gazed at the gargoyle and the way shadows played over its twisted features as it loomed over the happy couple. She saw the spot that Babette had told her about, where the rock had chipped away from the base, and its perch unsure.

 

She kept her back to the wall as she slid, slowly, softly, over to the statue. Her fingers felt along its rough surface and shivered, the piece shifting like a loosened tooth. From the corner of her eye Vici and her husband stood, smiling and waving, and the bride’s dulcet tones sounded over the audience. Magnus shone on her face, warming the bride’s cheeks and her husband turned towards her, his bright face fixed on Vici’s, and her sun-soaked words cascaded to the audience below, and Gwyneira heard them lap them up like sweetened cream. She felt her throat grow tight and her vision fogged for a brief moment.

 

Gwyneira took a deep breath and closed her eyes and felt the gargoyle tumble over the side.

 

* * *

 

  


Astrid laughed, low and throaty, and Gwyneira felt her stomach turn over as she pulled the hemline of her robes and shifted from foot to foot. The Nord clapped Gwyneira on her shoulder.

 

“The news is everywhere! The Emperor’s cousin, butchered at her own wedding,” she cackled, her hand still on Gwyneira’s back. “Vici’s murder has started us down a path the Dark Brotherhood hasn’t been down in centuries. You’ve done a marvelous job,” she told her. “Now, your reward. I was speaking with Festus about what might be an appropriate award, and we came up with this.” Astrid handle a rolled up scroll to Gwyneira. “It’s an amulet, and a unique spell. They allow you to summon a legend in the Dark Brotherhood. When I was a young recruit I heard stories about him.”

 

“So, I get to summon a dead man? That seems...unseemly,” Gwyneira confessed. At Astrid’s black look, she shook her head. “It’s not that I’m ungrateful, I’m not. Calling up spirits has always...just unsettled me, I suppose.” She unrolled the parchment and held the amulet up. “What does the necklace do?”

 

“It helps to bind him to you.”

 

“Oh,” she muttered, slipping it into her pocket. “Who--who is it?”

 

Astrid raised her brows and Gwyneira cleared her throat.

 

“Who’s the spirit? You said he was a legend here…”

 

“Oh,” Astrid breathed. “He was a Speaker about two hundred years ago,” she began, “there was a betrayal within the Dark Brotherhood and he was killed during the conflict. A tragic case of mistaken identity. His Silencer actually went on to become the Listener after his death. Rumor was that he and his Silencer were quite close. If you get my meaning.” She shrugged, a grin still settled on her lovely face. “It’s an old story that gets passed around, especially to younger recruits. At least, it used to be. His name was Lucien Lachance.”

 

Gwyneira nodded, brows knitted together and read the scroll she had. “Um, thank you, Astrid. I mean it.”

 

“Go rest now. Gabriella and I are still working on your next contract. It involves the son of the commander of the Penitus Oculatus,” Astrid told her as she nearly radiated satisfaction.

 

Gwyneira cracked a small smile and shuffled off to the main chamber to sit in front of the waterfall. While she sat, she read the scroll, her fingers tracing the words. She concentrated on them, feeling the burn in the hands, and the rushing of wind stirred her hair. She opened her eyes and glanced at the translucent figure next to her.

 

She stood up, but he still nearly towered over her, a good head taller than she was, and his expression appeared disoriented, maybe confused. He looked around him at the chamber they occupied and nodded.

 

“It’s been a long time since I’ve walked the physical plane,” he told her. He fixed her with his gaze, frowning. “And who are you?”

 

“Er--I mean, my name?”

 

She heard him sigh. “Yes, girl, your name,” he said. “Are you dim?”

 

“Well, excuse me, I wasn’t exactly expecting to get attitude from a dead man,” she

snipped. At his sustained glare, she ducked her head. “It’s Gwyneira. Sauveterre,” she mumbled. She saw him start and narrow his eyes. He perused her for a moment, then nodded.

 

“And you’re the Listener?”

 

“Ah, yes, I am. I mean, I hear the Night Mother in my head, so, yes.”

 

“Of course,” she heard him mutter. “How fitting.”

 

“Fitting?” she asked, tilting her head. He eyed her, his eyes tracing her features, and she maintained eye contact with him. However, she did feel unnerved by the intensity of his gaze, though his eyes softened somewhat around the edges, his mouth losing some of that rigidness from before. She saw him swallow and idly wondered if spirits still needed to do that or if it was a habit left over from his days of, well, living, she supposed.

 

She startled when he reached a hand out to touch her face, the chill just kissing her skin before she broke away. A smile came over his face, small and drawn, and he nodded, letting out a huff of laughter.

 

Or a sigh.

 

His hand dropped to his side and he shook his head. “I wonder…” she heard from him. She waiting for him to finish, but nothing else was said.

 

“So,” she said, drawing out the ‘oh’ and he fixed her with a stare. If she knew better, she would have thought he was bored. “What exactly are you supposed to do?” she asked him.

 

Lucien raised a brow at her. “You summoned me,” he reminded her, and crossed his arms in front of him, shifting his weight to one foot as he regarded her. “You said your last name was Sauveterre, yes? From High Rock?”

 

Gwyneira scowled. “Yes, Sauveterre, no to High Rock. I’m from Bruma. In Cyrodiil.” She threw her hands up huffed. “Gods, you were around during the Oblivion Crisis too? You hear about the fucking Hero of fucking Kvatch?” she exclaimed.

 

A smirk made its way onto his face and he chuckled. “You could say that. I wasn’t involved, of course, but I was around for it. I wasn’t around for the end though.”

 

Gwyneira muttered an “oh” under her breath and glanced at the waterfall. She felt his stare run over her and her flesh goosed under the sensation. She turned back towards him and flashed a little half-grin at him and he appeared stricken; she hadn’t been aware that it was possible for a spirit to blanche. Her face fell.

 

“Are you alright?” she asked him, before a bark of laughter escaped her. “You almost look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she teased. “Imagine that. Although,” she ventured, “I do suppose you’ve seen quite a few ghosts, seeing as you are one.”

 

He nodded, a short, jerking motion, and stepped back from her. “Pardon me,” he said, voice tight and she took a step back. “I’m needed elsewhere.”

 

Her brows furrowed as she saw him dissolve into mist and drift away. “Where else could you possibly be needed?” she wondered, scuffing her boot against the stone floor. She let her eyes drift over the rest of the room before she headed towards the dining area. She flopped down into a seat next to Babette, who had been chatting with Veezara, and dished out a couple helpings of the porridge she found before her. She pushed it around her bowl.

 

“Ah, hello Sister,” the Argonian greeted. “I’m glad to see you made it out in one piece.”

 

Gywneira flushed and nodded. “It got a little worrisome there for a moment; thanks for that, by the way,” she said.

 

“Ah, it was good to fight by your side,” he told her. “You’re very fast,” he acknowledged.

 

“You’d move fast too if you thought the entirety of the Solitude town guard were on your ass. How fortunate for me they were too busy with you,” she laughed.

 

He smiled at her. “I do what I can,” he said, shooting her a wink. “Astrid thought you might need the help, what with such a high-profile victim.”

 

Gwyneira hummed her assent, still playing with her food, and propped her head up on her hand as her elbow pressed into the table. She could almost hear her mother tell her to pull her arms back and asking her if she was raised in a barn. She giggled under her breath, ignoring the looks she drew from the other Brotherhood members.

 

Babette spoke up after a moment. “So,” she began, “I heard Astrid taught you how to summon Lucien Lachance.”

 

Gwyneira whipped her head up and frowned. “Yeah, she did.”

 

The vampire sighed, sitting back in her seat. “You’re so lucky,” she gushed, and Gwyneira saw her dark eyes glitter with excitement. “Astrid must have been very impressed with you to award you such a boon.”

 

“Oh yeah,” she mumbled. “A cranky ghost who follows me around. I can’t wait.”

 

Babette sniffed. “You should have more respect,” she chided. “He’s a legend in the Dark Brotherhood--”

 

“Yeah, I heard. Loyal servant of Sithis, Speaker, his Silencer went on to become the Listener and so on,” she reiterated, then let out a long sigh, dropped her face back into her palm. Before Babette could respond, she spoke again. “He looked kind of sad,” she mused and resumed pushing her food around on her plate. “I suppose most ghosts are sad though, don’t you?” She chuckled a bit, under her breath, before exhaling a long stream of breath. “I mean, I know you died too, but you can still live, so to speak. Ghosts just...exist. It seems cruel to bind them here.” She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Sorry, just ignore me.” The girl pushed her bowl away and stood up, smoothing down her breeches and tucking her chair back in. “I think I’m going to head to bed. It’s been a long week.”

 

The scrape of her chair echoed in the room, and the hollow sound followed her, past the fire, past Cicero’s rambling in the Night Mother’s chamber, and into her bed where she collapsed and buried her face in the roughspun pillow case she still hadn’t swapped out yet.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so pleased I got this out when I wanted to. I reworked this a lot (along with a bunch of my other drafts and I think I'm losing my mind) but here it is. Hopefully, it's okay. I want to thank everyone for their continued support, and a special shout out to both **lysmune** and **Henantier** ; your guys' sweet words and your encouragement have really kept me going, even if I've been kind of crappy about responding to comments (I try, I really do). I won't get super sappy here, but seriously your guys' comments make my day. 
> 
> (And honestly, y'all should head over to their accounts and check out their work; they have different writing styles, but it's quality stuff.)
> 
> I really am grateful for all the support this fic (and Fortune's Favorite) has received, and I'm always just delighted when I see someone else has read or left kudos. It means so much to me. And, as always, I do all my own editing and try to catch everything, but things slip through, but I always appreciate it when someone points out some of my errors (especially typos because when I see them I want to die) so I can fix them.


	10. The First Branch, Chapter Nine: The Careful Guest Keeps Silent

After haphazard packing and a rushed goodbye--and not giving Astrid a chance to argue--Gwyneira found herself back in Whiterun Hold, with his vast plains and rock outcroppings and trickling streams and the late Frostfall air that carried the barest hint of grass and damp stone. She ran her fingers through her hair, disturbing the knots in it, and tugged at her strands.

 

She heard a sigh beside her, and she scowled before she turned to face the source of the noise.

 

“What?” she demanded.

 

Lucien quirked a brow, one side of his mouth curling upwards, and crossed his arms. She shuddered when she would see his incorporeal form and her skin prickled under his scrutiny.

 

“Must you be so sullen all of the time?” he asked, and she thought a tad derisive, and she glared at him.

 

“I’m not,” she said, and he let out a chuckle and shook his head.

 

His gaze swept away from her and he surveyed their surroundings. “I remember Skyrim from my youth,” he told her. “I had my first contract here. On a farmstead. You should see how blood clings to sheaves of wheat. It’s quite beautiful.”

 

She peered at him out of the corner of her eye, staring, her mouth drawn down into a scowl and her brows furrowed. “I guess you had to be there,” she mumbled. Silence filled the seconds that crawled by around them, and she cleared her throat. He looked back at her, and inclined his head towards her.

 

Her voice hitched, “So,” she began, before coughing, “Did you grow up around here, then?” she asked. Then, she winced as her words repeated themselves in her ears.

 

But she saw him shake his head. “No, I did not, as a matter of fact.” He paused, regarding her from under his brow. “Are you so curious of me?”

 

“Er, well, I mean, here you are. With me.” Her high-pitched laugh echoed in the clearing and her nerves felt alight with electricity. “Popping in and out whenever you want,” she muttered. “I feel like…” she trailed off and took her eyes off of him and his gaze. “Like I should get to know you,” she finished, shrugging her shoulder.

 

The words rang hollow, even to her.

 

He said nothing, and they resumed walking. Or rather, Gwyneira thought, she walked, and he drifted over the rock and soil, the ground beneath him undisturbed.

 

As the city walls came into view, she heard him, closer than she thought him travelling next to her. “I was born in Daggerfall,” he told her.

 

“Oh,” she said, rubbing her arms, and she pulled at the hem of her robes. “I thought your name sounded funny.” Her eyes widened. “Not funny-funny. Just…funny for an Imperial. Unusual,” she stammered, her tongue twisting in her mouth, but he only let out a chuckle.

 

“You are skittish,” he said. “We need to break you of that, my Listener.”

 

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.

 

“And why not?” he asked. “It is who you are.” He angled his face away from hers, staring out across the tundra. “I should not be surprised.”

 

“About what?” she questioned.

 

“Many things.”

 

She huffed. “That’s not an answer.”

 

“Perhaps I’ll tell you. Someday.”

 

She scowled and twisted her torso towards him, but was met with empty air, and she pulled on the cuffs of her sleeves.

 

“You cannot keep doing that,” she grumbled. “It’s going to look like I’m talking to myself.” She reached her arms up and brought them down behind her head, stretching her back and lowered the limbs by her sides. She glanced at the sky, the sun glowing against the azure backdrop and wispy clouds skimming the surface.

 

Every day she was in Skyrim, High Rock was farther and farther away and--with the Night Mother’s proclamation--she could feel it slipping through her fingers, like melting snow, and her chest constricted, a chill burrowing into her marrow. Her father was in Bruma, alone, and only the Eight knew when she’d see him again.

 

She had been hoping she would have something to show him by then.

 

Pressure built behind her eyes and she swiped at them until they burned, and she inhaled--sharp--through her nose, the sniffles deafening in the quiet of the early morning. Her eyes roved the area around her, and failing to spot if Lucien had rematerialised, she gave herself a moment to let the twin streams drip over her cheeks--a second--and then she wiped them with her sleeve. She swallowed the rest of the bitter water around the lump that had lodged itself in her oesophagus. She shook her head and buried her face in her palms, breathing in the ozone that clung to her fingers, and she bit her cheek before she lifted her head and smoothed her hair back with quivering hands, her tongue swiping her raw lips, chasing the salt that stained them.

 

Whiterun stood before her, not thirty feet away, and she remained rooted to the ground until she felt her beating heart slow. With a final pat to her hair, she dragged her feet along the dirt and grass up the path to the city gates.

 

As she made her way to Hulda’s, her eye caught on a sign on the side of the street.

 

“For Sale”

 

She ran her gaze up the sign to the building behind it, a little house with a pitched roof and thick beams framing it. Homes is Bruma were constructed in a similar manner; the constant snow required it, though Whiterun felt warmer, if by only a fraction.

 

Not that that really meant anything, she thought.

 

She lingered on it, tasting the saline on her mouth and sniffed once more, before she turned and walked into the marketplace, ducking into one of the stores

  
  


 

She burst through the door of Dragonsreach and marched up to Proventus Avenicci, dropping her purse in front of him, the clink of gold resonating in the hall.

 

“I want to buy a house,” Gwyneira told Avenicci. The Imperial took a couple steps back from the Dragonborn, startled, and she told him, “There’s a house for sale, and I’m a Thane, I guess, so I know I can, and I have the gold. And believe me,” she said, grimacing, “you do not want to know what I went through to get some of it, but it is all there.”

 

Avenicci glanced back at her and arched an eyebrow, his eyes scrutinising the pouch. She bristled. “I even went through the trouble of having the coins exchanged and borrowing the rest,” she admitted. “It’s all there,” she repeated, the muscle in her cheek twitching.

 

“I thought you said you had no desire to stick around,” he stated, his tone flat.

 

She flushed and scuffed her foot against the floor. “It seems things have...changed. A bit. Unforeseen circumstances and all that,” she told him. Then under her breath she added, “Apparently out of my control.” She glared at the wooden slats and snapped, “Are you going to take my gold or what?”

 

“You saw the house?” he asked, squinting at her but picking up the coin purse. “It’s rather small,” he warned.

 

“Don’t need much room,” she said. “The size is fine. When can I move in?” She tapped her foot on the ground, looking back and forth between him and the entrance. She saw him huff and shake his head.

 

“Give us a few hours to get the papers drawn up and meet me back here,” he informed her. “Then we’ll get everything else squared away.”

 

She regarded him for a moment and nodded, running her hands through her hair and she let out a long sigh. She turned on her heel and began to walk out of the longhouse when a tall, dark-haired woman stopped her.

 

“My Thane,” she said to her, who jolted at the title.

 

“Excuse me?” Gwyneira asked as she shook the woman’s hand off of her arm.

 

The taller woman let her hand drop to her side and let out a breath. “It’s Lydia, my Thane,” she reminded her. “Your housecarl,” she clarified and Gwyneira thought she looked somewhat impatient before her mouth formed a little ‘oh’ and she nodded, mumbling an apology under her breath.

 

“Right...that was the name,” Gwyneira muttered.   “Look, no offense, but I think I mentioned this before: I don’t need a babysitter. You really...don’t have to do this whole ‘my Thane’ thing.”

 

Lydia glowered and crossed her arms and shifted her weight to one hip. “My Thane,” she continued, ignoring Gwyneira’s protest as she informed her, “believe me, you have made it quite clear that you have no desire for my service, but I am bound to you.” Before Gwyneira could say anything else, Lydia continued, “Besides, I overheard just now that you’re moving into a home here, and it’s no secret that you’re on the road quite a bit. Why not have me move in to make sure your home is safe while you are away?”

 

Gwyneira opened her mouth, a retort on her tongue, when she paused and bit her lip. “I...guess,” she conceded. “That might not...be so bad. I suppose.”

 

She felt Lydia’s eyes on her as she hemmed and hawed, sucking on the corner of her mouth and tugging on the edges of her sleeves, and heard the long, drawn-out sigh and the creak of her armour when she crossed her arms. “I can also make sure that all of your affairs are in order. Like the paperwork for your home and I can oversee the setup so you won’t have to bother with it.”

 

Gwyneira perked up. “Really? You can...take care of all of that? For me?”

 

“As long as you give me permission to do so.”

 

“Permission granted. Permission granted twice,” she enthused. “I hate paperwork. At least, I hate the boring kind.” Then she leaned into Lydia’s space and fixed her with her gaze. “Besides,” she said, dropping her voice, “I don’t think Avenicci likes me too much.”

 

Lydia softened her shoulders and let out a little laugh. “I wouldn’t worry about it; he’s like that way with everyone.”

 

“Oh, good then,” Gwyneira said around twitching lips. “It’s not personal.”

 

“Probably not,” Lydia told her.

 

“So…” Gwyneira started, “should I stay here or…”

 

“If you have business elsewhere, you might as well attend to it. I’ll make sure to get you once your home is ready. They’ll want you to inspect it first, but if you want I can do that, too.”

 

“Um, sure, I’m sure you’ll do fine. Just...you know. No skeevers or ghosts and everything will be fine,” Gwyneira told her. Lydia laughed and she grimaced. “I’m kind of only half-kidding,” she muttered. “I mean it about the ghosts. None of those.”

 

* * *

 

 

Gwyneira supposed she didn’t have much to do if Lydia was taking over the preparations for the set up of her residence in Whiterun, and she found herself sitting under the--rather haggard, in her opinion--tree in the temple district while she basked in the late morning sun and listened to the trembling leaves above her head. It could be worse, she figured, because at least Whiterun was a decent enough city. It didn’t have the biting chill of Windhelm, or the Forsworn problem of Markarth.

 

Or the death-cult that Falkreath housed.

 

She winced.

 

Gwyneira hid her face in her hands and let out a groan. Why was she even still here? This was not how things were supposed to go. Two months later and she was still in Skyrim. And buying a house. And now stuck with hearing a dead woman’s voice in her head.

 

She didn’t want to think what could happen now if she skipped off to High Rock.

 

She looked up from her palms and leaned back against the bench, staring at the tree’s branches. She watched them sway and snap off, twirling through the space next to her and the ground, and she kicked at them with her boots and brought her knees up to her chest. She wrapped her arms around them, she rested her head there and let her eyes slide shut.

 

“Excuse me, ma’am. Could I bother you for a septim? I’m really hungry and I just need one more to buy a sweetroll,” a little voice asked her.

 

She blinked and a girl with hazel hair and dark eyes with bruised sockets swam into view, and Gwyneira straightened up and tucked her legs underneath herself.

 

“A septim?” she asked the girl, who nodded.

 

“If it’s not a bother.”

 

“Where are your parents?”

 

The girl looked down and picked at her worn frock. She didn’t say anything for a moment and Gwyneira rubbed the back of her neck before she went to fish a coin from her purse. She opened her mouth to tell her to never mind and to go buy herself something to eat when the girl glanced back up with watery eyes.

 

“My...my mama’s dead,” she admitted.

 

“Oh,” Gwyneira mumbled and her ears burned as she coughed. “Well...why are you begging? What about other family? Your father?” she questioned, holding out a coin for the girl to take. She accepted it and let out a weak sniffle.

 

“Brenuin told me I should, that people would give me money because I look so pitiful. I don’t have anyone else. My aunt and uncle took over our farm and kicked me out because I’m not good for anything.” She appeared to be working herself up, tears now dripping from her chin and jaw, the tip of her nose reddening.

 

Gwyneira glared. “That’s fucked,” she spat, then slapped her palm over her mouth. “Sorry,” she muttered. “Er, don’t repeat that,” she said to her. “Don’t you have anywhere to go?”

 

The girl’s arm ran over her face, smearing tracks of dirt and water across the skin, and she shook her head. Gwyneira thought to mention Honorhall, but...it wasn’t exactly as if she could send the girl there alone. And, she mused, it might be best if she steered clear of Riften. At least, for the moment. Until everyone forgot about Grelod.

 

And maybe what she looked like.

 

Though some time had passed; surely things had calmed by now.

 

She turned to glance back at the girl, her mussed hair and dark eyes and dirty cheeks, and felt something twist in her stomach and her throat tightened as her face tingled as blood ran through her body and scalded the flesh of her cheeks. Her clothing stuck to her, clinging under her arms and around her waist. She tilted her head, gazing at the sky once again, taking in its stillness and clarity; a far cry from what it had been at Helgen and even Riverwood recently. No looming shadows or the flapping of wings or torrents of flame. Not now. Not yet. No columns of smoke or charred flesh or little, broken bodies.

 

“I’m buying a house in town,” she blurted out. “You could stay with me, er, if you wanted,” she stammered, scratching the back of her head and feeling her hair wind around her fingers. “You wouldn’t have to work, or anything, and I imagine I could get it squared away with the jarl--”

 

The little girl flung her arms around her, the skinny limbs around her neck and knobby shoulders pressing into her collarbones and she felt the diminutive form shudder and Gwyneira’s voice felt thick with cotton. She coughed and prised the girl off, gently, and she let out a sigh when the girl’s voice rushed over hers.

 

“Do you mean it? I promise I won’t make a mess; I’ll clean and cook and I’ll be the best daughter in the world--”

 

“Whoa, whoa, hang on,” Gwyneira interjected. “You don’t need to clean or anything, remember? I meant what I said, and...you don’t have to call me ‘mother’ or, you know, whatever,” she stumbled, and her vision blurred in her periphery, the sunlight glowing brighter and the sheen of the stone courtyard almost blinding, and she swallowed again. “But...you should at least let me know what you want me to call you.”

 

“Lucia,” the girl said, beaming. “My name’s Lucia.”

 

“Well, alright then. Lucia’s a pretty name,” Gwyneira said.

 

Lucia flushed, ducking her head, and she looked ready to cry again. Gwyneira took a couple more septims from her pocket. “Here,” she insisted, pressing the coins into the girl’s hand. “Take these. Go to Hulda’s and get something to eat. Apparently, it’ll be a bit before the house is ready. Er…” she trailed off, glancing up at Dragonsreach. “I suppose I’ll have to let Lydia know, won’t I?”

 

Lucia sniffled, rubbing her eyes after she pocketed the money and asked, “Who’s Lydia?”

 

“Oh, well, you’ll...you’ll meet her soon enough.”

 

Gwyneira wondered if nannying was within a housecarl’s repertoire.

 

  


* * *

 

 

What in Oblivion had she been thinking, Gwyneira mused to herself as she sat in Hulda’s later that night. Breezehome was purchased--and she still thought it ridiculous such a modest home had its own name--and Lucia was tucked into bed. And beyond some minor grumbling about being a babysitter, Lydia had been quite taken with the little girl and the two seemed to get along well enough. Discussing the matter with the jarl--or rather Avenicci--was, again, rather simple, she noted, and she had raised a brow at Avenicci’s hasty affirmation. What business did she have raising a child? Was that meant to be some sort of joke? Like she would be a fit role model for a child.

 

Eat your vegetables, do your chores.

Don’t worry about the bloodstains.

Don’t listen to the ghost.

 

Yeah, she'd be a fantastic mother.

 

She blew a puff of air into her ale stein and watched the ripples travel across the amber liquid before she took a long sip, the bubbles tickling the back of her throat. The sound of the door slamming opened startled her and drew her gaze to the entryway to see a small group of Nords--twins, a woman, and another man, all clad in armour--as they staggered into the inn, and she rolled her eyes at the cheers that went up around their entrance. They sat a few barstools away from her, chatting about what she didn’t bother listening for.

The slimmer twin was rather attractive, she thought to herself, and scowled, twisting her ring around her finger. She cast another glance at him, at his stubbled chin and dark hair and dark circles around his pale eyes and felt her face warm; she supposed that slim might not be the correct word for him since she could see even from her place at the  bar that he dwarfed her. Her eyes darted away and back towards her drink.

 

A few other patrons made their way over to the group and let out a chuckle when she heard them order a round for the group and contented herself to being a part of the cozy atmosphere, keeping an ear out. She’d only be a few hours more before she headed back home, and back to Lucia, though she was confident that Lydia had everything in hand. The heat from the firepit drenched her back and she let a smile curl over her lips and she slumped forward a bit, leaning on the bar and bracing herself with her arm. She swirled her mug and watched the golden fluid slosh and whirl inside.

 

“Have you heard?” someone near her slurred. “Those damned mages at the College have been in Saarthal. Disgraceful.”

 

She frowned when his comments were met with approval, and he continued.

 

“That’s a place for Nord dead,” he muttered. “Not those mages and their weird experiments,” he said.

 

Gwyneira thought that rather unfair; the little reading she had done when she thought she might try to join the College back in Bruma suggested a trove of magical artifacts in Saarthal. Nords were too jumpy with magicka, she thought. What did they think the priests and priestesses in the temples did? She glared at the bar surface; no one seemed to mind magic when it suited them, she mused as the murmurs of the tavern buzzed in her ears and blended together. She could feel herself redden, and she huddled around her drink. She supposed, as long as it was the _right sort_ of magic, they didn’t have an issue with it. Only things that benefitted warriors and their stupid ideas of honour and valour.

 

What a fucking joke, she thought, feeling the blood turn to acid in her veins as they continued to speak.

 

“What can you expect?” a third voice chimed in. “What with the influx of daedra-worshipping grey-skins in the east and halfmer in the west, can you really be surprised the place going downhill like it has? Damned mages, probably in league with the Thalmor.”

 

“How so?” the man--the handsome one--asked.

 

“Oh, come on, Vilkas, they probably bond over their spells and poncy clothes.” And the group chuckled, and her eyes flashed to the group, lighting upon Vilkas and his brother shaking their heads and grinning, and she rolled her eyes and took another deep draught of her drink.

 

Gwyneira thought she heard someone utter a rather off-colour joke about a Thalmor justiciar and a Breton milk-maid and she clenched her teeth.

 

“It ain’t right, I tell you. Stormcloak might have the right idea after all. Skyrim belongs to the Nords.”

 

“Alright, alright,” a fourth, the other twin, interjected. “No politics; we’re here to enjoy ourselves.”

 

“He’s right,” the woman stated, finally speaking, “we’re here for ale. Not to listen your political views.”

 

“I’m just saying,” he argued, “with all the damned elves running all over the place, who knows what they’d conjure up.”

 

“Hey, now, Athis and Irileth are elves. They’re a good sort,” Vilkas said, his brother and the woman agreeing. Gwyn snorted into her mug.

 

“Aw, they’re different and you know it,” the man whinged. “And look at that slimy shop-keep Belethor. Prissy little milk-drinker--” but he was cut off by a clap to the back of the head by the woman.

 

“Alright, that’s enough. Let’s just enjoy ourselves. We came here to drink, not debate.”

 

He grumbled, but a chorus of agreement broke out among the group, but Gwyneira found herself standing, shoving her stool behind her and throwing a handful of septims on the surface of the bar, the clang of coin echoing in the suddenly still room. Her face was hot, and the weight of dozens of pairs of eyes pinned her, including the once-boisterous group a few barstools down from her, and she glared at them before she swept out of the inn, the corners of her eyes stinging.

 

* * *

 

At the other side of the bar, the friends started at the screech of wood scraping against wood, and Vilkas frowned, his eyes following the path the girl took as she stormed out of Hulda’s, before turning back to look at his brother and Aela, the rest of the group returning to their drinks and conversation.

 

“What do you suppose her problem is?” he asked.

 

Farkas shrugged and Aela rolled her eyes and mumbled under her breath. When Vilkas asked her to clarify what she said, Aela shook her head

 

The other man scowled, “If she didn’t like something, she shouldn’t have been eavesdropping.”

 

Aela shrugged and took another swig, the corners of her mouth smirking behind the stein. Vilkas glanced back towards the door, his gaze lingering on it long after it had been closed.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I want to give a big thank-you to everyone who's read/commented/left kudos; I love that people seem to be enjoying this story, and Gwyn, and it really means the world to me.
> 
> I'm so sorry that this has taken so long to get up, but I've finished the whole draft now of the first branch, so my update schedule should be more regular. There's just been some personal stuff that's been cropping up, but I'm still working on this :D I'm sorry this chapter is kind of slow, but it picks up in later chapters, I promise. I kind of feel like this chapter should just be called "Exposition and White Space, the Story." As always, I edit all of my work on my own, and I do try my best, but I seem to always catch errors after I post. 
> 
> If you all want to keep up with my update schedule or just see general foolishness, check out my [Tumblr](silencebrulant.tumblr.com)


	11. The First Branch, Chapter Ten: Fickle of Heart

Vilkas saw the young lady from the night before standing in front of the Valentia stand in the market square, a little girl in tow. The two women stood there, chit-chatting, as the girls ran off to play. Tag, it appeared. The dappled light fell across the Breton’s face, illuminating her fine cheekbones and delicate brow, and her locks glowed a faint russet around her crown. He swallowed when he saw her tilt her head back and laugh, skin flushed and her eyes crinkled at the corners. She tucked a strand of hair behind the shell of her ear and he made his way down to Carlotta’s cart.

 

Jorrvaskr needed some supplies anyway. He might as well help Tilma out. 

 

“Carlotta!” he acknowledged and the Imperial woman looked away from the young woman to smile at him as she returned his greeting. 

 

“Good morning, Vilkas. Don’t normally see you here too often,” she pointed out, and from the corner of his eye he saw the woman next to him cross her arms and tap her her foot. 

 

“Oh well, you know...thought I’d take a bit off of Tilma’s plate. Woman runs herself ragged around Jorrvaskr and all.”

 

“That’s awfully decent of you,” Carlotta told him, eyebrow raised but her lips were still tugged up at the corners and he shrugged. He felt the brunette next to him shift and he turned to face her. 

 

“Sorry,” he started, still smiling, “I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation here. I, er, haven’t seen you around here much.”

 

She continued to peruse the produce and jerked her head away from him, and he saw her brows knit together and her jaw set. 

 

“I saw you last night, at Hulda’s. You didn’t stay very long, but I, er, but you seemed upset…” he trailed off as she picked out several items: carrots, onions, a head of lettuce, and a tomato, and she placed them on the counter in front of Carlotta who remained silent, but her gaze bounced back and forth between her two customers. Vilkas frowned and, finally, turned completely towards the slight woman and frowned. “Have I offended you in some way? Whatever it was, I apologize--”

 

“Oh, no,” she sneered, glaring up at him. “Why would you think you’ve offended me? I mean, I just didn’t know that a halfmer daedra worshipper would be worth your time to talk to, so I didn’t realize you were speaking to me,” she gushed, her face twisted and small palms pressed against her sternum in a facsimile of supplication. Her hazel eyes were wide open, but her little mouth was tight and bloodless. 

 

Vilkas took a step back, out of shock at the change in her expression more than anything else, and held his hands up. “I am terribly sorry,” he ventured.

 

“Oh, you’re sorry? Well, no need to apologize to me, after all. I’m merely a foreigner in your  _ lovely  _ province. I should be apologizing to you for you and your countrymen having to suffer my weird magic in your little hold,” she said, a smirk playing across her face.

 

The Nord bristled and stood a bit straighter, folding his own arms across his chest. “Now, wait just a minute,” he began, his voice dropping. “If you didn’t want to hear anything, you shouldn’t be listening in on other people’s conversations; that wasn’t meant for your ears anyway. And it wasn’t like we were talking about you.”

 

Her brows raised. “So, you were just talking about some mages, like just the ones at the College? Or only some elves and Bretons. Which ones were you referring to?” she questioned, and stood toe-to-toe with him, and he felt a tingle go down his spine at the heat in her irises. “Maybe if you didn’t want other people overhearing your ‘private’ conversations, you should learn to keep your voices down, you--” she huffed, cutting herself off and stepping back from him. She shook her head. “Whatever. I don’t know what you were hoping to accomplish. Hope you did it, at least.” She turned back towards Carlotta and dropped several septims on the counter. “Thank you for the produce; it looks lovely. I’m sure Lucia will be excited for dinner tonight. Sorry for the unpleasantness,” she then looked back at Vilkas and glared. “You know, I don’t even know her, but I feel bad for Tilma if she has to take care of the likes of you.” She gathered her things and shouldered past the Nord, knocking the bony joint into his ribs. He saw her sniff and scrunch her face, glancing back to him, brows furrowed again, but seeming less angry, and he flushed, but she shook her head and continued to stomp off. He watched as she wrenched the door of a nearby home open and then slammed it behind her as she disappeared within it. 

 

He glanced back to Carlotta who dropped her eyes and looked everywhere but the Nord and he sighed. He pushed several coins towards the Imperial and gathered a meagre bundle of produce and he caught the smile the woman flashed at him, and he ducked his head as he skulked off. 

 

* * *

 

The door shut with so much force that the plates that lined her cupboards shook and threatened to topple over. Footsteps thundered down the stairs as Lydia rushed into the main room, only to stop short upon seeing the aggravated Breton before her. 

 

“My Thane,” she addressed her, but Gwyneira waved off the greeting. 

 

“You don’t...don’t call me that. It’s weird,” she complained and rubbed a hand over her face. “Just Gwyneira, alright? Or Gwyn. No...no titles. I don’t...care for it,” she muttered.

 

“Is everything alright?” the taller woman asked, and Gwyneira shrugged. 

 

“I mean, as well as can be expected, right?” She shook her head. “Sorry, I’m in a bit of a mood.”

 

“Where’s Lucia?”

 

“Oh, she’s playing with that Mila girl.”

 

“Carlotta’s daughter?”

 

“Yeah, that’s it. Nice kid. I’m sure Lucia will be back home soon enough.” Her boot scuffed the floorboards and she picked at the hem of her robes with her free hand, tugging off tufts of lint that had gathered there, and the odd piece of straw. “Can I ask you something?”

 

“Of course, my--Gwyneira.”

 

Her lips twitched before she suppressed the motion and she cleared her throat. “Er, what do you think? About me? I mean, about me being...not Nordic?”

 

“Excuse me?” Lydia queried, frowning, and her shoulders slumped from their previous rigidity. 

 

“I just mean, I’ve heard some...some talk. In different holds. About--”

 

“Don’t worry about it. Don’t worry about what some backwater locals say to you. Or around you, since I doubt anyone would say anything untoward to your face, what with the rumours about you being the dragonborn,” Lydia laughed. “Really,” she reinforced, when Gwyneira only chewed at the corner of her mouth. “Sure, some people here aren’t too friendly to people they don’t understand, but...well, I’ve travelled quite a bit before deciding to stay in Whiterun. I’ve seen a lot, and I like to think I know enough to not pay some of the more unsavory rumours, including those about mages, much mind. And I can’t stress this enough to you, but really just learn to ignore the men. They can be completely pigheaded. And if you can’t ignore them, feel free to give them a good thrashing. It might do them some good. They need it.”

 

Gwyneira sighed, relaxing her grip on both her hem and her parcel and headed towards the pantry, where she set her recent acquisition from town and stretched her arms overhead. “Like I could,” she said, “I’ve seen the size of some of the men here; I’m barely half of one.”

 

“Well, you could probably Shout at them until they see reason.”

 

“There’s a joke in there, somewhere,” Gwyneira chuckled. “Sorry. Someone just kind of pissed me off today.”

 

“Did it have something to do with last night?” Lydia asked. Gwyneira bit her lip and nodded. “Don’t let tavern talk get to you. What happened today?”

 

“Just ran into one of the skeever-brained morons from last night in the market today. Bastard tried to chat me up. Reckon he didn’t know I was a mage,” she snipped. “I should have set his pretty hair on fire.”

 

“Pretty hair?”

 

“Shut up. He’s an idiot.”

 

“I’m sure.”

 

“He is,” the girl insisted and Lydia just laughed. 

 

Gwyneira saw the housecarl frown and pat her hands on her trousers and fish something out of her pocket. 

 

“Forgive me,” Lydia apologized, “but I almost forgot to give this to you.” She held out a folded cream-coloured piece of parchment and passed it off to the other woman. “The courier came by today and said this had been left for you.”

 

She accepted in and pried the wax seal off of the note with her fingers and unfolded it. A simple “We need you back in Falkreath” was the only phrase that decorated it and she sighed. 

 

“Bad news?”

 

The brunette shook her head. “No, not really. I’ll just have to head out tomorrow.”

 

“So soon?”

 

Gwyneira scoffed. “Yeah, tell me about it. Would have been nice to…” she trailed off, gazing at the door, before she shook her head and chuckled. “Never mind. You’re fine with looking after Lucia, right? I know it hasn’t been long, but--”

 

“No need to worry; I’ll keep everything running for you. And Lucia’s an independent girl; I don’t think you need to be overly concerned with her.”

 

The Breton cracked a grin. “I know. She’s a rather impressive little thing, isn’t she? I know it hasn’t been long, but I hope she’ll adjust alright. Living here, I mean.”

 

“I’m sure she will.”

 

Gwyneira nodded and sighed again, when Lydia spoke again. “Why don’t I get lunch started? You already seem exhausted and I’m sure Lucia will be back soon. Just go on an head up to bed for a bit.”

 

“It’s the middle of the morning,” she complained.

 

“Go, rest. You look like you need it. My Thane,” Lydia smiled as she walked around the smaller girl and gathered the ingredients she had just bought. “I’ll make a nice stew. Go rest. I’ll call you down when it’s ready; you have a couple hours.”

 

“Fine, fine,” Gwyneira mumbled. “I can tell you mean business. And I guess I am kind of tired. Should rest before I have to head out. But I’ll wait until tomorrow to do that. They can wait another day.”

 

She walked up the steps, her limbs heavy, and she let out a couple yawns before she collapsed back onto her bed. She had almost forgotten what it felt like to have a bed of one’s own, after sleeping in inns and the Sanctuary. She kicked off her boots and snuggled into the covers, letting the warmth from the downstairs hearth sink into her skin and she shivered, smile curling at her lips. She fumbled with the buckle of her robes before she slipped it off and flung it out from under the covers, clad only in her undershift and small clothes. She heard Lydia bustle around downstairs, the clang of the pot and vegetables being chopped and the fire being stoked and how it roared to life below. 

 

Her lids tugged down over her eyes, and she sank deeper into the bedding, letting the faint bubbling of the stew below to drift over her ears and lull her into a trancelike state, where she let herself submerge in the heat of the covers and the softness of her mattress. She wriggled a bit, wrapping the blankets around herself, and breathed in the woodsmoke and salt that wafted from below and she let herself drift off.

  
  


* * *

 

  
  


Some hours passed before Gwyneira felt something rouse her. With her eyes remaining shut, she still heard the bustling sounds of Lydia in the living room, and lighter movement as well, and she thought Lucia might have come back home from playing with Mila. But there was something else, something static to the air, a fullness that hadn’t been there. A chill. She blinked, her vision bleary, but she caught a faint blue glow in the corner of her room. As her eyesight cleared she jumped upon seeing Lucien’s clearly outlined spectre. 

 

“By the Eight,” she hissed, running her hands through her hair, and she glared at his figure, “I didn’t summon you.”

 

He scoffed. “You didn’t need to,” he told her. 

 

“What, you thought you’d just pop on in? For the love of Arkay,” she mumbled as she scrubbed her face with the heels of her palms. 

 

“I grow restless. You need to get back to Falkreath,” he chastised. “Your mistress requires your presence.”

 

“Yeah, I got that. They sent a note. Didn’t need you to come back from the other side to tell me that.” She glared at her ghostly companion. “I’m leaving tomorrow. Astrid can wait a little bit longer. It won’t kill her.” She dropped her gaze under his scrutiny and mumbled, “Though I guess it could kill me.”

 

She swore she heard him huff and felt her face prickle with heat. “Don’t you have anything better to do?” she questioned him, and she saw him raise a glowing eyebrow at her and she scowled. “I don’t need attitude from a dead man,” she muttered. “I’ll head out tomorrow. Morning. First thing. Happy?”

 

He remained silent, but she thought she saw his posture relax and she shook her head as she kicked the covers off of her and stretched after her feet hit the cool floor. She felt her spine release a series of pops up her back and shivered. When she turned back around, Lucien was gone and she frowned. She grabbed the under layer of her robes and threw them over her chemise and belted it, and made her way downstairs where Lydia and Lucia were, with Lucia dishing out a portion of stew for the girl. 

 

Lucia glanced up and smiled. “Mama! You’re up!” Gwyneira’s face glowed and she felt light-headed, but her lips curved into a grin and she walked over to Lucia and ruffled her hair. The little girl beamed up at the woman and rambled on. “I was going to get you, but Lydia said you were tired and we should let you sleep. We, er, she was going to keep lunch warm for you for later.”

 

Gwyneira laughed. “Well, I’m up now,” she told her, and looked up towards Lydia and mouthed a “thank you” to her and received a nod in return. She peered at the food in the pot and inhaled; her stomach gave a rumble of interest and she shrugged when Lucia giggled. 

 

Maybe having a housecarl wasn’t a terrible idea. 

 

Lucia continued to chatter as the three sat down to eat, and Gwyneira let herself look out the small window in the front and watched the light filter through the yellowed glass, glittering on the smooth wooden floor and she felt something unfurl in her chest and a warmth settle in her stomach. She reached over and ran her fingers through Lucia’s hair again, combing them through the tangled hair and smothered a laugh when the girl protested when the woman’s digits caught onto a few knots. 

 

She needed to leave for Falkreath, but there was no harm in making dinner tonight for her little family. Maybe she’d even pop into Hulda’s and get a couple sweetrolls. 

 

* * *

 

While the journey to Falkreath from Whiterun wasn’t long, Lucien had decided--again, she thought with a frown--to make his presence known and to share how inconvenient he found her timing when her “family” needed her direction as the Listener, despite them falling from the old ways. 

 

“Look,” she told him, “I didn’t even want to be Listener. Fuck, I didn’t even want to be in the Dark Brotherhood. You do know you guys are pretty much eradicated in Tamriel?”

 

“That will not be the case for long,” he said, drifting along beside her. He cast a glance her way and she felt his eyes trail over her face as silence stretched between them, broken only by the sound of tree branches rustling and brushing against each other in the soft breeze, and she shuddered, glancing to the side to look at anything else but his stiff expression. 

 

“Do you fear me?” he questioned, and she thought she heard amusement tinging his voice. She rolled her eyes. 

 

“Of course I don’t,” she yelped, feeling her face burn, and she cleared her throat. “I’m just on edge,” she stated. “Probably because I have a homicidal ghost babysitting me who keeps telling me to murder random people for ‘practise,’” she snapped and he chuckled. “I don’t see what’s so funny about it,” she mumbled. 

 

“I had a Silencer like you, once. A long time ago,” he trailed off and turned from her, his eyes on the horizon as they entered the Pine Forest. “Soft little thing,” he mused, “hated getting her hands dirty. Little hands, little mouth...” he continued, and she winced. “Jumped every time I came to Cheydinhal.” He chuckled under his breath and lead settled in her stomach. “She was good, though, pretty; she didn’t attract suspicion.” He turned his eyes back to her. “So sweet.”

 

She pulled a face and looked at him. “Were you always like this or did this happen after you died. Because if you were like this in life no wonder she hated being around you.”

 

He grew stiff beside her and she saw his jaw tense and she wondered if maybe she shouldn’t goad him like that. 

 

“Do not speak of what you do not understand. My Listener,” he murmured, and she felt a jolt go through her and shivered. She nodded and fell silent for the remainder of their--blessedly--short trip, but she felt the air around him crackle and spit.

 

Must be a sore spot, she thought, but said no more on the subject, and avoided his figure for the remainder of the way. 

  
  


When they--or rather, she--stepped foot in the Sanctuary, he disappeared once more and she searched out Astrid, who was in the middle of a discussion with Nazir, but perked up when Gwyneira entered her line of sight. She got up to greet the young woman.

 

“Good, you got my note,” the blonde stated, and Gwyneira nodded. “Gabriella and I have finalised your next job. I told you last time that it involved the Penitus Oculatus, the Emperor’s bodyguards, yes?” Another nod. “Wonderful. Gabriella has the details; go speak with her.” She grinned at Gwyneira. “This Emperor business, well, it does include everyone, doesn’t it?”

 

Gwyneira gave a small laugh and shrugged, and a tilt of her head towards Nazir who returned the gesture, and she snagged a sweetroll off of the table before heading up the stairs to the alchemy lab where Gabriella and Festus frequented. And, just as she thought, she found the elven woman hunched over the table grinding what appeared to be nightshade leaves in her mortar, and she cleared her throat, drawing the older woman’s attention. 

 

“Oh good, you’re back,” she acknowledged. “Enjoy your time away?” she asked, regarding the Breton, and Gwyneira swallowed.

 

“Ah, yes, I purchased a home. In a different hold. Thought it might be time to settle in somewhere, since it doesn’t look like I’m going anywhere any time soon,” she said as she kicked at the ground, listening to the skitter of a loose pebble as it tumbled down the side of the wall that led down into the narthex. 

 

“Congratulations, then. You’ve settled in?”

 

Gwyneira hummed and bit her lip. After a moment, she piped up, “Astrid said you two had another target? For--”

 

“Gaius Maro,” Gabriella told her, smirk splitting her finely-boned face. “The son of Commander Maro, the head of the Penitus Oculatus.”

 

The brunette felt the colour drain from her face, leaving it clammy and tepid, and she worked her mouth several times but no sound emerged for a few beats. And then she burst. “That seems a little...suicidal?”

 

Gabriella appeared unimpressed. “Perhaps, but the Night Mother did speak to  _ you _ , so I doubt this is beyond your capabilities.”

 

Gwyneira flushed and looked down, feeling the sweat gather at the nape of her neck and under her arms. She wiped her palms on her robes at her thighs. 

 

“Anyway, your job is quite straightforward; I truly doubt you’ll have much trouble. Just remember discretion is key,” the woman continued. “You, of course, need to kill Gaius Maro--the  _ son _ , not the father--and plant this note,” she reached into her robes and pulled a piece of vellum out and handed it to the girl, “on his corpse.”

 

Gwyneira accepted the letter and held it up. “Alright, but what’s in it?”

 

The elf smiled, a gleam to her red eyes, and said, “Evidence that he’s involved in a conspiracy against Titus Mede II.”

 

“Shit,” the Breton muttered. “Can I ask why?”

 

“We need to cast doubt on the Emperor’s bodyguards and distract Commander Maro.”

 

“...By killing his son?” Gwyneira choked the cotton in her throat down and unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth. Gabriella raised an eyebrow, and Gwyneira shook her head. “Just clarifying everything,” she insisted.

 

Gabriella narrowed her eyes for a moment before nodding. “Yes, by killing his son and painting him as a traitor.”

 

“Just checking,” she mumbled.

 

“Good, just make sure you kill him in a city, and not on the road. We need his body discovered quickly.”

 

“On the road?”

 

“Oh, right, you need to go to their headquarters here in Skyrim and find out his schedule. He’s working on making sure the province is secure for the Emperor’s arrival. So remember: kill him in a city. Otherwise it could take weeks for anyone to find his body, and the letter.”

 

Gwyneira bobbed her head and wrung her hands together, twisting the material of her sleeves around her wrists and stifled an exhalation that wanted to claw its way out of her chest. She licked her dry lips and took in a deep breath through her nose. Slowly, carefully, she released it, the air tickling her upper lip and she ran her hands through her hair 

 

“So, any idea where I’ll find his schedule?” she asked, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

  
  


Gabriella’s widened and she let out a chuckle. “Oh dear, my apologies. Their headquarters is located in Dragon’s Bridge. It’s a little village near Solitude. You shouldn’t miss it. The bridge is a dead give-away.”

 

“Dead give-away,” Gwyneira croaked. “Right.” She crossed her arms in front of her, her fingers drumming along her elbows, and she shuffled back and forth between her feet as her eyes darted from Gabriella to the doorway, and back again, swallowing down the saliva that had gathered in her mouth. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I am so sorry that this is what I give you after a month. I've kept combing through this but I'm still not satisfied with it, but I wanted to get it out since I've been so lazy about updating lately. Real life, you know? Please feel free to let me know if you find something that's kind of...weird. I try to catch everything, but I know I don't. Constructive criticism is always welcome.
> 
> Anyway, from the very bottom of my heart I want to thank everyone who's read/liked/commented on this piece. Any time I get a notification for this fic, it really puts a smile on my face. Everyone's been so supportive of this arc, and it just means everything to me.


	12. The First Branch, Chapter Eleven: By a Wicked Woman's Words

Gwyneira wanted to scream in frustration. Trailing after Maro wore at her nerves; the man kept a lot of company with the local guards, and it seemed impossible to get him alone. Her best chance had been when he was in Whiterun but--

 

It might be best she not attempt anything there.

 

Gwyneira shivered as another frigid gale bit into her flesh and rubbed her hands together, barely feeling the warmth generated through her gloves. She hated Windhelm, especially now as it neared Evening Star. She pulled her hood even tighter around her face, wishing she’d taken the time to pack something fur-lined. Her breath escaped her in silver rivulets that twined around each other like billowing smoke, and her stomach gave a low growl as her head spun. Grey light illuminated the ice-covered streets and she glanced up at the sky to see that Magnus had yet to make his daily climb over the horizon. She shuddered again, and her thoughts turned to Candlehearth Hall.

 

She’d have to wait to grab something to eat.

 

The hour was still early; if she was going to carry her plan through, she’d need to do it now when the guards were changing shifts.

 

She crept closer to the barracks and slipped inside, patting her pocket and feeling the crinkle of the parchment within it and letting out a sigh. She rubbed her hands over her face before she began her descent down into the lower level and into where the guards slept. Maro was staying there, and Divines help her he would be sleeping.

 

When she reached the room, and saw the beds lined up near each other, she spotted the figure of Gaius Maro and closed her eyes for a moment thanking her good luck. She clung to the shadows of the basement so she might not disturb the other sleeping occupants, and finally reached Maro’s bed, and she crouched down to slip her burden inside his pack, making sure to keep the jingling of the buckles to a minimum. Her gaze darted up when she heard him stir and she held her breath, burning in her breast, and released it upon seeing him turn around and settle back into the covers.

 

Now, she just needed to wait.

 

* * *

 

 

She bit into a hunk of bread and a piece of cheese she’d smashed into the soft dough that Elda had served her and chewed, glancing out of the front window every so often, and watched as the sky grew brighter and brighter. The stool creaked under her weight as she fidgeted, her feet coming to rest on one of the support bars that fell between the wooden legs, then slipping off. Her robes bunched around her waist and hips, pinching under her arms and she picked the fabric away from her skin, her face burning when a couple other patrons arched their brows at her, and she stared back down at the plate before her, crumbs littering the top and she sighed, her breath disturbing them.

 

She took in a few deep breaths, and felt the stuttering in her chest slow and she closed her eyes. She had a plan, she assured herself. It would work. It would work and she wouldn’t even have to do anything. Not really.

 

Her palms burned.

 

Craning her head back towards the window, she could see the snow falling in the morning light and she scooted back from the bar, dropping a couple extra septims on the counter for Elda with a mumbled “thank you” for the fresh bread and she slid out the door, throwing her cowl back over her face to stave off the bitter breeze that whispered through the streets, and she saw that the patrols through town had picked up.

 

Maro would be coming out soon.

  
  
  


Magnus was visible, even through the blanket of grey clouds, and Gwyneira ducked into a side alley, where she could still see the happenings in town, but out of the way enough that she was shielded from view. She breathed in and out through her nose, concentrating on the warmth building in her stomach; it bubbled and boiled in her gut, and she felt her hands radiate and sweat bead at her brow.

 

Finally, Maro was in view, surrounded by four other guards. A stern expression decorated his visage: set jaw, furrowed brows, hard gaze, and his posture ramrod straight.

 

She swallowed again, and fixed her eyes on him, raising her hands and feeling the palms burn bright for a moment, then the chill from the city creeped into her where that simmering left her blood and marrow. She watched as his face glazed over, a gleam to his otherwise hazy eyes, and he lunges at the one of the guards in front of him, catching the other man by surprise. He continued, relentless, despite those  attempting to subdue him, until one--a rather large, muscled woman--runs him through with her sword.

 

Gwyneira felt herself sigh, the air swelling in her chest and choking her before it dissolved into the wind that whipped around her, and she sank against the stone and slid down the wall, wrapping her arms around her knees and pressed her face into them. Her sinuses stung and she rubbed her lids against her kneecaps, the material of her robes scratching that flesh, and she sat there for a moment, the cold of the cobblestone soaking into her breeches and an ache formed in her joints before she moved to stand back up, her body cracking and straining as she stretched.

 

The townsfolk bustled around the commotion, their voices blending together in a rush that muted the hiss of the wind and stuffed her ears. She stumbled back, towards the opening into the Grey Quarter, when she felt something ram into her.

 

Her heart stopped and she charged her hands, feeling the electricity dance along the surface of her palms, but jumped upon seeing a small blonde girl in front of her, an overturned basket and scattered flower petals at both of their feet.

 

“I’m so sorry, ma’am!” the girl exclaimed, crouching down to pick up the discarded blooms, and Gwyneira followed suit, righting the girl’s basket and dropping several small blossoms into it.

 

“Hey, it’s alright,” the Breton said, shaking her head when she saw the girl’s shoulders shaking. She reached out and patted the joint in one, two quick taps before returning to the damp flowers. “Are you okay?”

 

The little blonde nodded. “I am. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going; I’m really sorry--”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Gwyneira said, her heart resuming its fluttering, and she took a deep breath. “You just surprised me. That’s all. No harm done,” she assured the girl, who gave a quick smile and nodded.

 

They finished gathering the small flowers, and Gwyneira got back to her feet, wincing at the way her knees protested, and she rubbed the back of her neck.

 

“What are you doing with those anyway?” she asked, waving to the basket.

 

“I’m selling them. But…” the girl trailed off, sighing, and a frown marred her already smudged face. “No one seems interested in buying any. I’m only asking for a septim,” she said.

 

Now that Gwyneira had a decent view of the girl’s face, she noticed the gaunt cheeks and bruised eyesockets and tangled golden locks. Her scruffy frock was torn and threadbare in places, and Gwyneira took her purse out and pushed ten gold coins into the girl’s hand. “Here, I’ll take ten,” she insisted.

 

“Oh no, you don’t have to do that,” the girl said, her eyes tearing up.

 

“No, I really want them. They’re pretty.”

 

They were wilting.

 

Gwyneira bit her lip.

 

“Are you by yourself?” she questioned, and the girl sniffled and Gwyneira nodded. “Where are you staying?”

 

The girl kicked at a pebble nearby before mumbling, “Sometimes Elda lets me stay by the cooking spit if I do chores for her.”

 

Gwyneira sighed, and her teeth pinched the inside of her bottom lip, and copper zinged her tongue as she watched the blonde fidget in front of her. “Don’t you have anyone?”

 

The girl shook her head. “Mama and Papa...they’re both, they’re gone.” Her little fists squeezed the flower basket until her knuckles turned white and she continued to keep her face towards the ground. “You can’t say anything, please,” she whispered and Gwyneira had to lean in closer to hear her. “The Jarl with send me to Honorhall, like Aventus. I don’t want to go there.”

 

Gwyneira took a step back and shifted her gaze to the side of where they stood. “I mean

it’s not so bad now, from what I hear--” she trailed off, feeling the girl’s eyes on her again.

 

“How would you know?”

 

“I--er--I hear things. Around town,” she laughed, though it came out as more of a croak, and she cleared her throat. “Don’t worry about that.”

 

The girl dropped her basket and grabbed a hold of Gwyneira’s robe hem. “I don’t want to go,” she insisted, tugging. “Please don’t have them send me there!”

 

Gwyneira held her breath, her pulse hammering against her throat and behind her eyes, before she felt herself deflate and nod. “I can’t leave you to sleep out here. In Windhelm.” She pursed her lips and let out a long breath through her nose, before bringing her hand up to rub the center of her forehead. “I don’t feel right leaving you here. Why--why don’t you come with me. To Whiterun. It’s a small house, but there’s enough room for you, if you want to, and there’s another little girl there to. My,” she coughed, “my daughter, Lucia.”

 

Her face lit up, and Gwyneira’s own lips twitched in response. “Do you mean it?” she asked, and Gwyneira watched as she bit her chapped lips and wrung her hands together, and she found herself nodding.

 

“Yeah. I’m heading out of town--er--now, really,” she laughed, looking around and then she let her shoulders slump. “You feel up to a trip in a carriage?”

 

The girl nodded, her hair bouncing back and forth, catching the morning light, and Gwyneira smiled. The girl slipped a cold palm into Gwyneira’s and the woman shivered, clutching the small fingers tighter and letting some heat flow into her own hand and shot another little grin at the girl. “You’ll have to tell me your name, you know, or I’ll wind up picking out something terrible, most likely.”

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Gwyneira and her charge--Sofie--arrived back in Whiterun, Magnus had long since set and only a handful of guards patrolled the streets. She opened the door, the hinges protesting the motion against the frosty air, and Gwyneira winced when she heard the ceiling creak under the weight of someone slipping out of bed.

 

Lydia poked her head through the hole in the floor at the top of the staircase and her eyes widened upon seeing the child alongside the other woman.

 

Gwyneira cleared her throat, her face rosy, and kicked at the floor. “Her name’s Sofie. Sofie,” she said as she turned towards the little blonde, “this is Lydia. She lives here too.”

 

“You’re very pretty, ma’am,” she said while she clung to Gwyneira’s robes.

 

Lydia let out a startled laugh as her cheeks flushed, and shook her head. “Well, I think you’re very pretty as well,” she responded, before she arched her brow at Gwyneira, who turned her face to the side and bit her lip. They were all silent for a few moments, the crackling of the heart the only sound the echoed throughout the little home, before Gwyneira sighed and her shoulders slumped.

 

“Sofie,” she started, bringing her gaze back to the child, “there’s a spare bed in that room over there,” she said and pointed towards the doorway behind the staircase. “Just be quiet getting in there; Lucia should be asleep by now.”

 

She nodded and padded off to the bedroom, leaving the two older women alone. Lydia made her way down the stairs and made sure the door was shut before walking to Gwyneira. She glanced back at the door and Gwyneira sighed again.

 

“My thane,” Lydia began, “I don’t mean to overstep my bounds but….” she trailed off, shifting her weight from foot to foot, and Gwyneira ran her hands through her hair.

 

“Just say it,” she muttered, and then she straightened and frowned at Lydia. “And stop calling me ‘my thane.’ I hate it.”

 

Lydia nodded and crossed her arms. “You know they’re children, correct? They’re not strays.”

 

“I know that,” she snapped.

 

“And you’re away an awful lot to be raising children,” the other ventured.

 

“I know that, too,” Gwyneira mumbled. “But what was I supposed to do? Leave them to starve? Sofie was on the streets in Windhelm. _Windhelm_ , Lydia. What would you have done?”

 

She watched Lydia open and close her mouth, before she clamped it shut and she saw the muscles in her jaw and neck work as she swallowed. “I don’t know what I would have done.”

 

“No one seems to know what they would have done,” Gwyneira bit out. “That’s not their fucking problem,” she said, jerking her head towards the bedroom. “Sorry,” she said under her breath. “I’m just in a bad mood.” She walked over to one of the chairs near the fire and flopped into it, slumping down into it and her leg stretched in front of her. “You’re not wrong though,” she conceded. “I, er, I do have to leave. Tomorrow morning. Business, you know?”

 

Lydia creased her forehead, but said nothing.

 

“You’ll make sure they’re alright, right?” Gwyneira asked, leaning and craning her head over the back of the seat. She saw the other woman, upside down and arms folded, and watched her nod.

“Yes, of course,” she affirmed, her gaze softening as she continued to look at Gwyneira.

 

Again, silence sprouted between the two women and Gwyneira faced the flickering flames. “I’m going to try not to be gone so long. I mean it.” The fire lept and spat, and she stared at the coals that illuminated the bottom of the pit.

 

She heard the floor creak under Lydia’s bare feet and saw the woman settle into the chair across from her.

 

“My thane--Gwyn,” Lydia corrected herself, “you seem...troubled. Is there something on your mind?”

 

She snapped her eyes back to Lydia and shook her head. “No, not really. I guess...no. I’m fine. It’s nothing. I’m just tired.” She released a long breath through her nose, feeling it tickle her top lip, and her chest clenched and her palms tingled and grew clammy. She wiped them off on her thighs and stood up. “It’s been a long trip,” she said, popping her neck, “I think I’m going to go up to bed. I’ll head out tomorrow morning. You don’t…” she bit her lip, “you don’t need to wake the girls up to see me off or anything. Just...just let them sleep. You know, as long as they need.” She lowered her lids and looked at Lydia through dark lashes. “Is...is that okay with you? I know you’re the one who has to look after them.”

 

Lydia looked at her for a long moment before she nodded “Don’t worry about it. I’m glad to do it.”

 

Gwyneira peered at her for a second longer before she tilted her head towards the other woman and disappeared up the stairs.

 

* * *

 

Gwyneira stood outside of the black door, staring up at the embossed skull, her satchel weighing on her shoulder as she looked into the darkened eye sockets of the carving. She shifted the strap of her bag over to her other shoulder and pushed the door open to hear the clamour of voices rising over the rush of the waterfall in the cavernous narthex. They reverberated off of the moss-covered walls and she flinched when the door slammed shut behind her. Hurried footsteps  drifted to her ears and Astrid appeared in front of her, causing Gwyneira to jump back before releasing a nervous laugh.

 

“Astrid,” she gasped, still chuckling. “You scared me. Sorry it took a bit, but--”

 

“I know, I know: you killed Maro. Good,” Astrid interrupted, and Gwyneira saw her already pale complexion appear pallid and waxy--grey--and she frowned.

 

“Is everything--”

 

“Look, something’s happened since you’ve been gone.”

 

Gwyneira scowled and mumbled, “That’s not vague or anything.”

 

Astrid’s gaze was sharp and Gwyneira flinched when Astrid bit out, “I’m serious. We’ll take care of your contract later, but right now you need to come with me.”

 

“Shit,” Gwyneira breathed. “Am I in trouble?” she asked as she followed the other woman.

 

Astrid shook her head. “No, not at all,” she said as she continued to lead Gwyneira into the main room, and the younger started when she saw everyone crowded around Veezara, who still lay on the ground with a good pool of blood around him.

 

“Good gods,” Gwyneira exclaimed, “is he alright?” she asked Astrid. “What in Oblivion happened?” she asked into the chamber, her voice echoing off of the stone walls.

 

Veezara flashed her a brief smile and waved, only to wince and Babette tsked at him for moving.

 

“Cicero happened,” Astrid growled. “The fool went beserk! As you can see, he wounded Veezara, then tried to kill me, and then he just ran off!”

 

Gwyneira furrowed her brows before crouching down next to Veezara, watching Babette put pressure on the wound that was underneath his tunic. Her hands twitched but remained by her sides.

 

“It looks worse than it is,” Veezara teased, his voice coming out in a thick rasp and Gwynera winced, patting his shoulder.

 

“Shush, Veezara, just rest,” Babette scolded. “Don’t try to talk. Just let the potion do its work.”

 

“What exactly happened?” Gwyneira repeated, getting up from her place near Veezara, and Astrid sighed while she ran her fingers through her own hair.

 

“Damn it,” Astrid cursed, “we knew better. We knew better, and we still let our guard down! I knew that lunatic couldn’t be trusted.”

 

Gwyneira thought to remind the blonde that that didn’t quite answer her question, but she thought better of it.

 

“It's true, I'm afraid,” Festus chimed in. “Cicero was a little whirlwind. It would have been funny, if he weren't trying to murder us all,” he said, shaking his head.

 

“And don’t forget the bit about the Night Mother,” Nazir added. “About how she’s the true leader of the Dark Brotherhood and how Astrid’s only a pretender.”

 

Even Gwyneira had to raise her brows at that. “Sounds like I missed all the excitement,” she mused, glancing back at Veezara and Babette. The man flash a small smile at her.

 

“Probably a good thing,” Veezara rasped.

 

“You shouldn’t talk,” Gwyneira chastised. “Shouldn’t someone get him to bed or something?”

 

“She’s right,” Babette interjected, nodding towards Gwyneira. “Come on Veezara; I think you’ve had enough for today.”

 

He groaned as Babette helped him up and steading him on her small frame, and he nodded in assent. Gwyneira watched as the two made their slow climb up the moss-covered steps, a frown on her lips, before she turned back to Astrid who had the same expression on her face.

 

“There’s something else, too,” Astrid told her.

 

Gwyneira sighed. “Is there?”

“Arnbjorn was so enraged when Cicero attacked me, he went after him. I know my husband can take care of himself, but…” she bit her lip and stared down the corridor that led to the entrance. “I worry. I want you to kill that jester, and find my husband. I’m sure Arnbjorn is fine--”

 

“Cicero’s probably digesting in his stomach as we speak,” Festus assured Astrid, and she cracked a smile at that, though Gwyneira felt nauseous.

 

“True,” Astrid said, but turned back to Gwyneira with her eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure where Cicero ran off to, but you might check his room for any hint as to where he went.”

Gwyneira nodded and her shoulders rounded forward. She’d have to head on out, again, after she just got back, and she bit back her commentary on the situation and swallowed it down as she stalked towards Cicero’s temporary quarters. Tempers were flaring and she doubted her input would be appreciated. Even though it was her who’d be shouldering the inconvenience. Must be nice, she thought, shaking her head, to have someone do all the inconvenient grunt work you don’t want to do yourself.

 

She pushed the doors to Cicero’s room open and slipped inside. Her gaze slid over the cluttered writing desk, covered with torn parchment and several open leather-bound books. She noticed the handwriting that decorated the pages, and approached them. She noticed that he’d labeled them, clearly--almost methodical. He’d even numbered the pages, she mused with a twinge in her chest, before she shook her head and skimmed the contents of what she now knew were journals.

 

They were interesting, she thought, but didn’t tell her much, and ultimately she told herself they were unimportant. But then she spied the open book on top of his bed, somewhat obscured by the coverlet and ripped sheets. She retrieved it and squinted at the scrawled letters as they twisted and turned on the page. Her eyes began to burn and her head throbbed, and she felt a cool gust on the nape of her neck.

 

“It appears he is headed towards Dawnstar,” Lachance’s voice drifted from behind her.

 

She jumped and dropped the journal. “For fuck’s sake, Lucien,” she snapped after she spun around to face him. “Don’t do that!” She saw his lips curl and she scowled as she cleared her throat. “Who’s in Dawnstar?” she simpered, sniffing and turning back to recover the book.

 

“The jester, girl.” When she faced him again, she saw him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Tell me, are you simple? Or do you just play at it?”

 

“You’re awfully impatient for a dead man, you know? Not like you have to be anywhere,” she grumbled, snapping Cicero’s diary shut. Before he could retort, she interjected, “But fine. I’ll tell Astrid that I’m heading there. See if I can find Arnbjorn. If he hasn’t already killed Cicero, I mean. He probably has.”

 

“No, he lives yet.”

 

“Er, well, alright then. I guess I really better get on my way.”

 

She turned to leave, pushing past him and she felt icy tendrils grip her elbow and she gasped, dropping the book, and she stared at the translucent hand that held onto her arm and she swallowed. “In my time,” he began, “my Sanctuary had to undergo the Rite of Purification.”

 

She frowned at him, her lips pinched at the corners, and she jerked her arm back. “Yeah, well,” she said, trembling voice sticking in throat, “if I remember right, that didn’t really work out all that well for anyone involved, now did it?”

 

Lucien’s gaze bore into her, and she felt a maw open in her gut and her mouth fill with saliva. His eyes remained sharp and clear, and still, and she took a step back, rubbing at her elbow.

 

“No,” he murmured, and she started for a moment. He let out a scoff and folded his own arms in front of his chest. “No, I supposed it did not.”

   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long. Again. I've been garbage at updating lately, but I really am trying to get better. Real life has been kind of tough, but I'm trying to push through it. The comments/kudos/views etc. all keep me going with this project of mine; I'm determined to see this story through to the end, I promise. 
> 
> I do all of my own editing, which is part of the reason this takes so long, but also sometimes mistakes slip through even though I try to catch all of them. Please feel free to point any out if you spot them; it really helps me out and I truly appreciate it. 
> 
> And, as always, you can check me out on [Tumblr](http://burningsilenceblog.tumblr.com) and watch me be a dork.


	13. The First Branch, Chapter Twelve: Of Infinite Jest, Of Most Excellent Fancy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick head's up: my Tumblr url has changed and it's been corrected in the main note for the entire story, but to make things easier it's burningsilence.tumblr.com (I finally match now)

Gwyneira’s teeth clattered together, echoing in her ears, and she shuddered while her hands rubbed up and down along her arms as she clung to the back of Shadowmere’s neck, soaking up the heat that she emitted and snuggled against the horse.

 

“Perhaps you should have worn a thicker cloak,” Lucien said.

 

“Maybe you should keep your opinions to yourself,” she snapped as she straightened her back, her jaw aching as she clamped her teeth together. The snow clung to the fringe of her hood and it dripped onto the tip of her nose. She shook her head, rubbing her gloves over her face and shivering.

 

“Why couldn’t he have run somewhere warmer?”

 

“In Skyrim? We were already in the warmest hold.”

 

“And if I wanted logic--” she cut herself off and rubbed her chin, “you would still be the last person I asked.”  Shadowmere’s hooves clicked along the icy road and Gwyneira groaned. “I also probably wouldn’t be out here, chasing after a clown and a werewolf. Two things I always promised myself to stay away from.”

 

Lucien stopped and turned towards Gwyneira, hovering beside her. “Clowns?”

 

“It’s a long story.”

 

He arched a brow and she grinned, the effect ruined by her quivering lips, and she peered out in front of them and noticed rust-coloured stains along the blanketed route and frowned.

 

“Is that blood?” she wondered out loud.

 

“Well spotted,” he condescended, and she bristled.

 

“I didn’t see you pointing anything out,” she muttered, but dismounted from the saddle

and landed with a harder thud than she’d intended, wincing at the way the impact vibrated up her shins. She looked up at Lucien’s smirking visage and fought the urge to stick her tongue out. Shadowmere continued to trail behind her as they followed the vermillion puddles to the shoreline of Dawnstar.

 

And Arnbjorn.

 

He lay hunched over and had propped himself up against a familiar looking doorway, and Gwyneira saw him breathe hard, clouds of silver mist escaping him in bursts. She dropped Shadowmere’s reins and ran up to the werewolf, the sound of water squelching in her boots. Arnbjorn glanced up and frowned before shutting his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall.

 

“Should have figured Astrid would send you,” he groaned.

 

She glared. “Yeah, you’re welcome, by the way.” She frowned. “Where’s Cicero?” she asked.

 

He sneered and jerked his head towards the door. “In there,” he grunted. “Stupid thing won’t let me in just because I don’t know the passphrase.” She started when he let out a chuckle. “But I got a good bit of that fool. Wouldn’t be surprised if you found him bleeding out inside.” Then, he broke off into a moan and he clutched his side.

 

“Are you going to be alright?” she asked, glancing down at his wound.

 

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Little bastard’s quick, I’ll give him that.” He cracked an eye open and regarded her, and something changed in his face. “Hey,” he said, startling her.

 

“Do you need something?” she asked, already bringing her pack around in front of her and digging around for a potion phial. She dropped to her knees as she continued to rifle through her belongings and she felt a palm still her questing fingers.

 

“No, nothing like that,” he said. “Thanks, tidbit.”

 

Her ears pricked with heat and she shrugged. “I don’t know if you noticed, but your wife is a little terrifying.” She looked down at her satchel. “She’s worried about you.”

 

“I’ll be fine. I’ll heal in a bit. Might rest here for a moment longer though, before I head back.”

 

She nodded, dusting her knees off as she got to her feet, with Lucien and Shadowmere behind her, when Arnbjorn called out. “Hey tidbit, before you go,” he began, sitting a bit straighter than before, “make it slow, okay?”

 

She grimaced, flashing her teeth, and forced a laugh through them. “Yeah, sure. No problem.”  He chuckled again, before breaking off into another groan. She watched him heave himself off of the wall and brace himself against the rock there. She moved to help him, but he held his hand up. "I'm fine, just get in their and stab him," he said. She bit her lip and watched as she staggered off towards the road and wondered if she should have insisted on a potion.

  
  


 

Gwyneira and Lucien made their way to the shrouded door and she stood there, biting her lip and bouncing on the balls of her feet, and heard Lucien shift beside her. She glanced at him and watched him frown and stare up at the embossed skull that loomed over them.

 

“Consider your actions carefully, Listener,” he murmured, and her hackles went up, gooseflesh breaking out over her arms. She parted her lips, but he continued. “The Keeper is a sacred position in the Dark Brotherhood,” he told her. “If you wish, I will kill this jester for you, but think on if this is what the Night Mother and Sithis truly want.”

 

She glared at him, stepping away from the door and crossing her arms over her chest. “And what does that mean? You’ve been acting weird lately,” she paused, “not that that’s saying much,” she muttered. “Do you think you can shed some more light on the subject or are you being a cryptic pain in my ass on purpose?”

 

He leveled a gaze at her and she shrunk back. “I’ve said my piece. Do with it as you will.”

 

“Fine. Whatever. Let’s go.” She peered back up at the door.

 

“This Sanctuary is likely guarded.”

 

“Guarded?” she asked. “I thought it was abandoned.”

 

He smiled over at her and gestured for her to go ahead of him.

 

She glared and walked up to the shrouded door, the heavy pulse and thrum of magic vibrating in the air.

 

 _“What is life’s greatest illusion?”_ it questioned.

 

She stopped and pursed her lips, rolling her eyes upward toward her hairline, her brows furrowed as her teeth worked the inside of her cheek, the muscle in her jaw tensing and twitching. She heard Lucien huff beside her and she snapped, “Don’t rush me! I’m trying to remember the stupid answer to this stupid riddle.” She sneered at him and made a rude gesture. “If you’re so impatient why don’t you answer, then?”

 

“You know I cannot.”

 

“No, I don’t fucking know that!” she shrieked. “Can’t you give me a hint?” she whined, and she saw a soft smile cross his features, and she took a step away, regarding him.

 

“I can’t,” he told her. Then, he let out a soft laugh and shook his head.

 

She raised an eyebrow and asked, “Are you...feeling alright? Can ghosts get sick?”

 

“Think of those two urchins you rescued off of the street,” he sighed. “Why did you do it?” His eyes flickered toward the door and she followed his line of sight.

 

“What does that have to do with--Oh!” she gasped and spun to face to doorway. “Innocence! It’s innocence, right?” She frowned back at Lucien. “Did I get it? By the Eight, what happens if I didn’t get it?”

 

_“Welcome home.”_

 

“I would say your fears are unfounded,” he said. “We best get inside.”

  
  
  


“Listener!” she heard after she and Lucien crept into the damp and dilapidated stone entryway, with Cicero’s high-pitched voice scraping along the walls, followed by a burst of laughter. “You came! I knew you would! Send the best to defeat the best?”

 

“I don’t know about that,” she mumbled.

 

“Astrid knew her stupid wolf couldn’t slay sly Cicero!”

 

“To be fair,” Gwyneira called out, “I _did_ kind of hope he’d just eaten you and I could go home.”

 

“Oh, sweet Listener--” he crooned.

 

“Stop calling me that!”

 

“You’ll find my home is well-defended. Best of luck!”

 

“Wait, what?”

 

Quiet rang through the halls before she felt a sharp prick skim across her shoulder, and she let out a yelp and clutched her arm. She saw Lucien throw an ethereal dagger and watched it sail across the air and hit its mark--another spectre, not unlike Lucien himself--and she groaned before searching for a potion and unstoppering it with her teeth.

 

After she drank it down in three gulps, she glanced back at Lucien who returned her gaze, sheathing his dagger.

 

“What was that?” she hissed.

 

“I believed I informed you this place would likely be guarded.

 

“Thanks for the heads up, by the way,” she muttered.

 

* * *

 

 

Two hours--and what Gwyneira suspected to be a worrisome case of frostburn--later, Gwyneira thought she might actually be at risk of vomiting from rage as they emerged from an icy tunnel they’d found themselves in after dispatching several other ghostly sentinels, only to have come to blows with a massive frost troll.

 

“What the _fuck_ was all of that?” she panted. She ran her hands over her face, avoiding her newly blossomed black eye and split lip.

 

“I suppose it is not surprising that such a creature made its home here,” Lucien mused.

 

“That’s all you have to say? That’s all you have to say?” she shrieked. “I almost died. Again!” She exhaled, glaring down at the floor. “I fucking hate this place,” she growled as she placed her hands on her hips and licked at the blood still clinging to the corner of her mouth. “I’m going to kill Cicero. I’m going to disembowel that little bastard and strangle him with his own intestines.”

 

She ignored Lucien’s appreciative stare and shuddered.

 

“Stop doing that,” she mumbled. “It’s getting on my last nerve.”

 

He said nothing but looked ahead of them. “I believe your jester lies through that doorway. Consider what I said earlier.”

 

“Alright, so why don’t you just come out and say what you mean? I’m tired of this cryptic ox-shit from you. Either say what you want or shut the fuck up,” she grumbled, stomping on the stone floor and up to the wooden door Lucien had pointed out. When she heard nothing else, she stopped and turned, only to find empty space where his ethereal form had been. She shivered, but shook her head and shoved the door open.

 

She saw him jerk his head up, auburn curls clinging to his face and eyes widening, before a grin stretched across his lips and he laughed, the sound buzzing in her ears. “Listener! You’ve arrived! You caught me!” He pulled himself up to a seated position, he back against the wall, and he panted as he clutched his side, and she noticed the sweat along his brow and temples. “I surrender,” he panted, still chuckling, and she clenched her jaw.

 

“You surrender?” she asked, fingers twitching as she moved closer, two feet away by now, and she glared down at him. “You surrender? That’s all you have to say?”

 

He shrugged. “Well, you made it all this way, and here I am, all weak and vulnerable, at your mercy,” he trailed off, his eyes gleaming as he gazed up at her.

 

She slugged him across his jaw and went down with him. Pain radiated up the back of her palm and into her wrist, and she winced when she caught an elbow to the ribs. They tussled on the ground, and bright lights flashed in front of her as his fist connected with her temple and she paused--shaking her head--when she felt the sting of his dagger against her neck. He rested on top of her and she tried to buck him off, but he pressed against her throat harder. She held her breath and looked at him, her hands still resting against him.

 

“I swear to fucking anyone listening I will set us both on fire before you make another move, Cicero,” she bit out.

 

He stared at her a moment longer before rolling himself off of her. They both laid next to each other, gasping, before Cicero spoke again. “I have a scenario for you, Listener.”

 

Gwyneira remained silent for several seconds as she breathed through her nose--the harsh sound echoing in the cavernous chamber--and ground her teeth, and she scowled when she heard him laugh again.

 

“Of course! The Listener listens!” He burst into a fit of hysterical cackles. “Get it? I made a joke; a funny joke!” His giggles trailed off and his voice pitched into something different, something deeper. Something that sent a shudder rolling down Gwyneira’s flesh. “I get it,” he exhaled and she heard him shift in place, and felt his stare on her once more. “Listen to this, then: don’t kill me.  Go back to that pretender, Astrid, and tell her I’m dead. Tell her you cut me open and watered your herb garden with my blood. But lie! Lie, and let me live!”

 

“I’m starting to think this whole ‘crazy’ thing you have going on is an act,” she muttered. “You tried to kill Astrid.”

 

“And I’d do it again. Anything for our Mother.”

 

She bit her lip and jumped when she saw him crouch over her. Her heart hammered in her chest, bouncing back and forth between her breastbone and spine and squeezing her lungs. He raised his hand and she flinched, but he only smoothed the hair away from her forehead. She swallowed and nodded. “Fine,” she said after a moment. “Fine.” She rolled over and scrambled to her feet, away from him. “But don’t let me find you again,” she warned. “And stay away from Whiterun. You got me?”

 

He tilted his head towards her, but said nothing else. She stared at him for a long moment, at the way he crouched and the way he no longer shielded his abdomen, and she scoffed, and rather than drown in the silent atmosphere, she spun and marched out of the chamber, leaving Cicero behind her.

 

When she emerged into the early light of Dawnstar and its frigid breeze, she gulped down the frosted air and slumped against the nearest tree, holding onto it, unmindful of the way the bark bit into her skin through her robes.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the latest update. I'd like to apologise for how short this is in comparison to my other chapters, but at least that means the next chapter is going to be quite long; hopefully that makes up for the lack of length this one has. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's left comments or kudos or has just stuck around in general while I try to get my garbage together for this fic. I know progress has been slow, but this story isn't going anywhere. As in, I'm going to keep at it xD Again, I've edited as much as I could, but I know sometimes errors slip through and they kill me inside. Don't worry about pointing them out to me; it helps me get better, and I really appreciate the looking out.


	14. The First Branch, Chapter Thirteen: Seldom do they, silent, err

 

Gwyneira found herself back in Falkreath, sitting in front of the waterfall in the Sanctuary next to Veezara. 

 

“Are you alright?” he asked.

 

She shrugged. “Bad day,” she mumbled, still looking at the sloshing water and feeling the mist stick to her robes. 

 

He nodded and shifted closer to her. 

 

“How are you feeling, by the way?” she questioned, peering at him out of the corner of her eye. “That was a nasty wound you had before I left.” Gwyneira tsked and tapped her chin with her finger. “But you look like you’re getting around better now. Babette’s potions must be helping.”

 

“I am. Arnbjorn, too,” he said.

 

“Yeah. I noticed that. Glad he got back alright without me.”

 

“Werewolves tend to heal not long after they’ve fed.” 

 

Gwyneira frowned and flinched, but she hummed in agreement. “I...see. That’s good, I suppose. I mean,” she cleared her throat, swallowing against the back of her throat. “It’s good that he’s better,” she insisted, and nodded her head, the strands of her hair bobbing up and down in quick repetition. 

 

Veezara laughed and patted her on the back. “Speaking of Arnbjorn,” he began, “have you spoken with Astrid yet?”

 

She shook her head. “No, not yet. She seemed--er--busy. With her husband,” she mumbled, her face aflame, and he chuckled at her. 

 

“I suppose it would be best to wait,” he said, watching her fidget, and he sidled closer to her. “You are uninjured though, yes?” 

 

Her gaze snapped to him and she blinked. “Oh, no,” she said after a moment. “No, I’m fine. I’m completely fine.” She stretched her arms over her head and yawned. “Just a long trip, you know, from Dawnstar. And I still need to talk to Astrid. But I thought I might give her some privacy for the moment.”

 

“Ah, yes, perhaps that is wise.”

 

Gwyneira cracked a smile. “I thought so. Besides, maybe I want to settle in for a moment before I go running off again. Don’t know where I’ll wind up this time. But hopefully, no clowns. I’ve had enough of that.”

 

He clapped her shoulder again, and she felt the breeze from his tail swooshing behind them when he craned his head back towards her. 

 

“Hopefully,” he teased.

 

* * *

 

  
  


Gwyneira didn’t have to wait long to be summoned to Astrid’s office, and when she arrived she was greeted with a warm smile and Gwyneira found herself taking a step backwards, but returning the gesture with a grimace of her own. 

 

“I’m sorry to be getting back to you so late,” Astrid said, grin still stretched over her face, and Gwyneira only nodded. “Excellent work with Cicero. And don’t think that I’ve forgotten about Gaius Maro. You carried out the contract to the letter.” She rocked back on her heels and tapped her finger against her lips. “Why don’t you hold onto Shadowmere for a while longer?” Astrid suggested. “She hasn’t been ridden in ages, not as often as she should be, and now that Cicero’s been taken care of, we can get back to the matter at hand.” Astrid regarded Gwyneira, and Gwyneira met her gaze until Astrid smiled again and motioned for her to step closer. 

 

“Have you heard of the Gourmet?” she asked, and Gwyneira’s eyes widened.

 

“Yes!” Gwyneira chirped as she clapped her hands together. “My mother loved his recipes. She had several of his cookbooks.” Then, she lowered her arms by her sides and frowned. “Er, why?”

 

A smirk played along Astrid’s mouth and she said, “You’re going to have to kill him.”

 

Gwyneira’s face dropped. “What? Why?” she asked, glancing back up at Astrid, her brows furrowed and eyes wide. 

 

“He’ll be cooking for the Emperor for a special dinner that Solitude will be hosting. You’ll have to kill him and steal his Writ of Passage before then, so you can gain access to Titus Mede II.”

 

Nothing was said, silence crawling between the two women while Gwyneira held Astrid’s hazel stare, and then she sighed and slumped forward. “You know, it’s times like this that I’m glad my mother’s dead, because this would kill her.”

 

Astrid laughed. “Yes, I imagine his death will cause quite the uproar in Skyrim. Sithis,” she shook her head, “in all of Tamriel. Even Babette’s a fan.” She chuckled to herself. “Be that as it may,” she continued, “this is a delicate part of the plan. We cannot risk exposure here; you have to be able to assume his role as master chef. Festus has been spearheading this part of the assassination. You’ll need to speak with him. He’ll have all of the details you need.” 

 

Gwyneira waited for Astrid to say more, but the woman just gave her an arched brow and turned away, back to her desk, and Gwyneira assumed she must have been dismissed. Stung, she headed to the alchemy station, where she had noticed Babette, Festus, and Gabriela often congregated. 

 

She spotted Festus, alone, hunched over the enchanting table, and he glanced up and waved to her. 

 

“About time you finally showed up,” he grumbled, going back to something he had been examining--a book, she noticed. Gwyneira strained to get a better look at it, but he shifted and blocked her view. She pouted as he began to speak again. “I imagine Astrid at least briefed you on the contract before she sent you over to me?”

 

“Yes, she did.”

 

“Good. So then you know you need to kill the Gourmet.”

 

“I do,” she said.

 

“The only problem is no one knows who he is.” 

 

Gwyneira pursed her lips and her brows furrowed. “...So then how am I supposed to, you know, kill him if I don’t know who he is?”

 

“Well, now that you ask, I have recently come into the possession of a signed copy of his recent cookbook.” Festus straightened his spine and lifted the text off of the table, snapping the cover shut and tapping the binding with his fingers. “A gift to another chef, Anton Virane. In Markarth.”

 

She shifted her weight back onto her heels and folded her arms. “I’m guessing that means I’m heading out to Markarth?”

 

“I can see you’re not an idiot,” he said and she stuck her tongue out behind his back. “He’s the cook up at Understone Keep, so try to keep your head down.”

 

“Keep my head down?”

 

“Well, you’ll have to kill him too, after you get the Gourmet’s identity out of him. Loose ends, and all that.”

 

Gwyneira blinked and nodded. “Oh, sure. Of course,” she muttered and she swallowed. “Silly me.”

 

Festus let out a hmph and waved her off. “Yes, now get going. You have people to kill and identities to steal.”

 

She scowled. “Yeah, sure, just let me grab a bite before I’m out again.”

 

The only response she received was another hmph and she rolled her eyes.

 

 

* * *

  
  


The rushing water from the river that flowed through Markarth vibrated in the air and the whole city felt damp and stale. It settled into Gwyneira’s robes and she pulled them around her tighter--to little effect. She glanced up the way towards the stone building that loomed ahead and felt herself draw in a deep breath and she shuddered. She’d need to wait for nightfall if she wanted to remain undetected; otherwise, what was the point of getting rid of those loose ends? 

 

She stared up at the gleaming keep for a moment, watching the light reflect off of the smooth surface and the way it glittered in the early morning, when she felt a soft tap on her shoulder and she spun around to be confronted with Muiri’s smiling visage. 

 

“I thought I recognised your hair,” she said. 

 

Gwyneira pressed a hand to her chest and heaved a sigh. “You could scare the hair off a cat,” she said, still shaken, but smiling, glancing up at the other woman. She ran her fingers through her hair as she heard Muiri’s laughter.

 

“I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you might have heard me. You were awfully lost in thought, though.”

 

“It’s...it’s been a weird few weeks.” She gnawed on her cheek and her lids fluttered as her gaze dropped. “I really did mean to write, you know. I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch.”

 

She saw Muiri wring her hands together, and felt a stab at her own stomach when she spoke again. “It’s fine. I--I understand. I know you’re probably busy with everything.” She laughed, but the sound felt brittle and hit Gwyneira’s ear wrong. “I can’t expect you remember me.”

 

“No, really,” Gwyneira hurried to say, “you wouldn’t believe the time I’ve had,” she tried, laughing, and trailing off into a wince. She coughed. “I am. Sorry, I mean. I’m sorry.”

 

Muiri beamed at her and shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. So,” she chirped, and Gwyneira’s shoulders relaxed, “how long are you in Markarth?” 

 

“Not long, to be honest,” she admitted. “I’m here on--er--I’m here on business.”

 

Muiri’s lips parted and she nodded--and Gwyneira saw her throat move up and down--before she went to speak again. “On business?”

 

Gwyneira’s face burned and she crossed her arms in front of her. “Ah, yes,” she stammered, “you know. Deadlines.” She lowered her arms and glared at the ground. “What are you going to do?” she mumbled, the words bitter on her tongue. 

 

“Do you have to leave today?” Muiri asked. 

 

Gwyneira furrowed her brows and shook her head. “No. Not really.”

 

She saw colour suffuse Muiri’s lovely face, and her own flesh grew warm as she watched the other shift her weight back and forth before she flashed a nervous smile at Gwyneira. “Maybe you’d like to spend the day together? I could show you around, if you wanted.”

 

“Yeah, I’d like that,” Gwyneira told her.

 

 

* * *

 

Muiri’s soft breaths ghosted over Gwyneira’s dark locks as the latter’s cheek pressed against her chest and the failing light streamed through the window of Muiri’s meager bedroom. Gwyneira let her fingers quest over the other woman’s collar-bones and up to her cheek, caressing the tender flesh there. The scent of ozone clung to the room, choking her, and she felt that tug in the pit of her stomach that plagued her. 

 

She pulled her hand away and rolled to her side.

 

Muiri mumbled something and shift in her sleep, and Gwyneira glanced back at her, at her brunette strands that draped over her forehead, at her brow smoothed in slumber, and at the flush that dusted her face, and Gwyneira sighed before heaving herself up and grabbing her robes, shrugging them on and belting them at the waist. 

 

Swallowing, she turned to crouch on the bed, her knees digging into the mattress, and she smoothed away Muiri’s hair and pressed a kiss onto her forehead. 

 

“Hey,” she murmured, waiting for the other woman to stir. “I have to get going,” she said when she saw her blue eyes flutter open, a small smile curving her lips, and Gwyneira found herself returning the gesture. 

 

“So soon?” Muiri asked, and Gwyneira nodded towards the window. 

 

“Afraid so. It’s getting late and I...need to find someone.”

 

Muiri sighed and closed her eyes again, smile still lingering on her mouth. “Alright, do what you need to. You’re leaving after this, too?”

 

“Have to,” she admitted. Things were quiet for a moment, before Gwyneira broke it. “I have a home. In Whiterun. It’s called Breezehome, or something.” Then she let out a laugh. “It’s strange, here, that they name all of their homes here, it seems. Back in Cyrodiil, only the fancy ones got their own names.”

 

She heard Muiri chuckle, sleepy, and murmur, “You’re silly, you know that? I like that about you.”

 

Gwyneira felt herself blush as she straightened and rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m not sure anyone else would agree with that,” she said, face burning under Muiri’s covert scrutiny. “But I mean it: if you want to--to keep in touch, you can find me in Whiterun.”

 

Another sigh, and Muiri turned in her bed to fully face Gwyneira. “I’d like that.”

 

* * *

 

The late hour meant that Understone Keep had a skeleton-contingent of guards drifting about its stone halls, and Gwyneira kept to the sides, near the walls, before she pushed into the kitchen. The scent of roasted fowl and spices clung to the air, and she felt her stomach give a lurch, reminding her of her inconsistent mealtimes, and she frowned down at herself. She should have stuck around Muiri’s a bit longer; Bothela had offered dinner, but she’d wanted to get this over with. She took in a deeper breath, letting her lungs expand in her chest and fill with woodsmoke, as she followed the aromatic trail to what she presumed must have been the kitchen. 

 

She pushed the heavy, bronze door open and spotted a middle-aged Breton at the cooking spit, and the tension drained from her spine even as his gaze snapped up to her. She gave him a small grin, shrugging, and he scowled back at her 

 

“Hi,” she started, “I’m looking for an Anton? Anton Virane?”

 

If possible, his scowl deepened and she felt her own prickle of irritation nip at the back of her neck. “Yes, that’s me,” he informed her. “And yes,” he snapped, “I’m a Breton, and no, I’m not one of these piss-licking natives.”

 

“Alright, I don’t remember asking you that,” she snipped back. “I’m a Breton, too, so what’s your point?”

 

He blinked and shook his head, releasing a long sigh as he did so, and stepped back from the fire. “My apologies,” he muttered, “You wouldn’t believe the grief I’ve gotten since relocating here. Blasted Nords and Reachmen.” 

 

She snorted and mumbled, “How terribly unfortunate for you.”

 

“I belong back in High Rock, not this frozen wasteland,” he mused, gazing off to the side, and cast a look back to what Gwyneira thought might be a back room. He sighed, again, and slumped forward. “Anyway, I’m busy preparing this sauce for tomorrow night’s dinner and you’re interrupting me. What is it you need?”

 

“Oh, you know,” she coughed, rubbing her arm, and she stepped further into the room, scanning the area, and she noticed that he was the sole occupant. “Just looking for some information.”

 

He sniffed. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re in the wrong place. You should try the steward tomorrow morning.”

 

Gwyneira shook her head. “No,” she disagreed, “I don’t think so. This is really something only you can help me with.”

 

He brought his gaze back to her an furrowed his brows. “What are you getting at?”

 

“You know someone,” she told him. “You know someone other people don’t. I need that name.”

 

His face drained of colour, the skin waxy, and he cleared his throat and jerked back towards his pot. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

She huffed. “See, that’s the reaction of someone who does know what I’m talking about. Now, look, I don’t really want to be here, and you don’t want me here. But I can’t leave until you tell me what I need to know. So why don’t you do us both a favour and just tell me who the Gourmet is. Then, it’ll be like I was never here.”

 

“I don’t know what brought you here,” he bristled, drawing himself up and crossing his arms across his body, “but you can just leave now. The Gourmet’s a good friend of mine and I’ll take the secret of his identity to my grave. Now, goodbye.”

 

She shut the door behind her with a soft ‘snick’ and sighed. “Listen, we both want me gone, right? Well, I can tell you that the Dark Brotherhood won’t let me leave here without finding out everything I can about the Gourmet--and I do mean everything--and I’m already in a pretty pissy mood, so I think it’s really in both of our best interests that you just shut up and tell me what I want to know.”

 

His pallor, if possible, blanched farther, and Gwyneira scuffed her boot against the floor, listening to the scrape of leather and stone grind against each other. She fidgeted, and let her hands settle on her waist, her fingers lighting on the hilt of her dagger, and her ears strained for any sound from outside the chamber, over the crackling logs and Virane’s own harsh breathing. 

 

“The Dark Brotherhood, you say?” he stammered, and she heard him swallow spit that had gathered in his mouth. His eyes darted to her waist and back up, and he held his own hands up. “Alright, let’s not be hasty, shall we? I’m sure my friend wouldn’t want me to risk my life, after all.”

 

She rolled her eyes and fixed him with a stare. “Right, I’m sure,” she muttered. 

 

“Look, his name is Balagog gro-Nolob--”

 

“He’s an orc?” she squawked, her arms falling by her sides, a startled laugh bubbling past her lips. “Get out!” she exclaimed, grin still etched over her mouth. “I was wrong before,” she said aloud, walking over towards him. “ _ This _ would kill my mother.”

 

“Excuse me?” he asked, taking a step back.

 

“Nothing, never mind.”

 

“Anyway,” Virane continued, keeping his eyes on her, “he’s staying at the Nightgate Inn, in the Pale. You can find him there,” he insisted before rubbing his hands together and watching her hand land on her hip again. “Now, you don’t really need anything else from me, do you?”

 

“Unfortunately, no, I don’t,” she sighed. “I want you to know, I’m sorry. I really am.” She watched his grey flesh shine with sweat in the flamelight while she unsheathed her dagger. “If I thought you weren’t going to flap your tongue the second I left, I wouldn’t even bother with this,” she said, waving her dagger. “But it’s not just about you or me, is it, friend? Other people are involved, people more important than us, am I right?” She exhaled, the tension coiling around her shoulders again. “Who are we, anyway? A couple of nobodies, that’s who. A couple of nobodies who got themselves caught up in the flaming heap of dragon shit that’s Skyrim.” She faced him again, her mouth pulled in a moue as she took in his features. “Sorry,” she said. “I ramble sometimes,” she confessed. 

 

He turned, but she caught him by the collar of his shirt and plunged the blade into his throat, and she winced when she heard the crunch of cartilage and his trapped breath escape the severed tube in a long hiss as the scalding blood burst over her fingers. She let his body slump to the ground and he gurgled a few times before she kicked him under the table. She needed to leave; it wouldn’t take too long before someone might come looking for him, and he wasn’t exactly hidden well, either. She slid a chair under the table as well. It would obscure him for a little bit. 

 

I f no one looked too carefully in the dim light. 

 

Gwyneira shuddered when she shouldered the large door open again, and she slipped out into the damp air of Markarth.

 

* * *

 

“Here we are, again, trudging through the snow in the middle of nowhere. I fucking hate Skyrim,” Gwyneira mumbled, hugging Shadowmere’s neck, and she ignored the way Lucien rolled his eyes. 

 

“You aren’t even walking. I’m not sure why you are complaining,” he said.

 

“It’s fucking cold,” she snapped. “It’s cold, and I’m hungry, and I’m tired. I don’t know why you’re complaining,” she stressed, huddling closer to the horse and glaring at the floating spectre. “You can’t even feel the cold. Or your legs.”

 

He remained silent and she bit back the urge to either press the issue or gloat. Wind whipped through her hair and she chanced another glance back at her companion, who stared before him, and she bit her lip.

 

“We’re very close now,” he told her after a moment. 

 

“To the inn? Yeah” she agreed, looking over where his gaze was trained. “I can see it.”

 

“To many things,” he answered. 

 

She raised an eyebrow and turned back to him. “Yeah, alright,” she muttered. She clutched her robes tighter and pressed her knees deeper into Shadowmere’s sides, ignoring the bite of frost that stung her skin. “Have you ever given a straight answer a day in your life? Er--” she choked, wincing, “unlife, then?”

 

She watched a small smirk form on his mouth, and she grit her teeth. “I hate this,” she said. 

 

“It is getting easier though, isn’t it?”

 

“What? Stomping around the province in freezing weather? Sure, easy.”

 

“You know what I mean,” he said. 

 

“Then, no,” she snapped. “No, it’s not.”

 

“And yet here you are.”

 

She scoffed. “Sure. Here I am.”

 

* * *

 

 

Killing the Gourmet, however,  _ was _ rather easy--she supposed Lucien hadn’t been lying when he’d spoken earlier. She’d happened upon him napping in bed after chatting with the publican for a few moments about the strange Orc who stayed at the inn. It should be some days before anyone discovered him, and she patted her pocket, feeling the crinkle of parchment as it settled against her thigh. Her hands shook, and she rubbed them together.

 

The trip back down to Falkreath passed in quiet, neither she nor Lucien attempting to engage the other in conversation, and Gwyneira instead focused on the swaying of Shadowmere beneath her, feeling the shift of muscles under the mare’s sleek, black coat, and she rested her cheek against the horse’s neck. The air grew warmer as they grew closer to the southern hold, and by the time the pair made it to the sanctuary, the sky had turned dark and glowed around the edges as Magnus tucked itself between the mountains on the horizon.

 

Gwyneira ignored the chill of her ghostly companion at her back, even as a transparent palm rested on her thin shoulder. She pushed the door open, only to jump back at the sudden appearance of Astrid on the other side. 

 

Astrid laughed and helped to steady Gwyneira and then ushered her in, closing the door behind her. 

 

“So, you’ve killed the Gourmet, then?” she asked, straightening the young woman’s robes. 

 

Gwyneira frowned. “Er, yeah, I did. How’d you know?” She heard the faint hum of Lucien’s presence behind her. “Have you been spying on me?”

 

“Sister,” Astrid chastised, “why else would you be back now?”

 

Gwyneira regarded her, expression still pensive, and she nibbled on her bottom lip, but she nodded and shrugged. “Yeah, alright,” she muttered. “Makes sense. Yeah.” She sighed. “Yeah, he’s dead.”

 

“Perfect. Then it’s almost time,” Astrid laughed. Gwyneira swallowed. “Don’t look so sullen. Are you always so sulky? This is good news. Titus Mede II is as good as dead now.”

 

“I’m not,” Gwyneira argued. Astrid just smirked at her and Gwyneira bristled under her scrutiny. “I’m not,” she insisted.

 

“Whatever you say, Sister, but you should get some rest. You have another long trip ahead of you.”

 

“I do?”

 

“As I said, Titus Mede is as good as dead, and I’ve decided that you will have the honor.”

 

Gwyneira felt the colour drain from her cheeks, and she coughed to clear her throat. “You have?”

 

“You are the Listener, are you not? And you’re the one who’s brought us so far. I thought it only appropriate you be the one to received this contract.”

 

Again, she felt Lucien’s hand on her shoulder and she shrugged it off, the shudder rippling down her spine. “Can I, er, go get dinner? Maybe get a nap?”

 

Astrid nodded. “Of course. You don’t have to leave until tomorrow morning. I’ll grab you when it’s time.”

 

Gwyneira’s mouth opened, and then she snapped it shut with another nod. As she walked towards the dining hall, she wrapped her arms around her waist and clenched her jaw. Her muscles ached with the cold, and she wasn’t looking forward to what was coming. A knot had settled in her stomach, heavy and cold, that hadn’t quite dissipated since that one night so many weeks ago, though she’d long given up on its erasure. 

 

She poked the food on her plate, resting her cheek against the palm of her hand as she pushed the grilled leaks around with her fork. Veezara’s cheerful attempts at conversation drifted over her ears, and Babette’s questions only served to prick at the nape of her neck. Even Festus congratulating her on the way she completed both the Gourmet’s and Virane’s murders failed to register to her. 

 

When she next looked up, people were filing out of the room, and Gwyneira pushed her plate away from her, sitting back in her chair and drawing her knees up under her chin. The sound of water trickling over stone echoed within the chamber, and she let her eyes flutter shut for a moment.

 

“You are far too soft, you understand?”

 

She huffed. “I thought you’d left.”

 

“I’m bound to you.”

 

She cracked an eye open. “Sure,” she said, “but that hasn’t stopped you from disappearing before.”

 

“Should you not be resting?”

 

“What are you, my father?” she grumbled. “I’ll head to bed, soon.” She heaved a sigh, blowing the strand of hair that had fallen across her eyes out of the way, and popped her neck. “You said something, before.”

 

He raised a brow. “I’m afraid you’ll have to clarify, my Listener.”

 

She rolled her eyes. “Before the Maro contract. After Astrid sent for me. You said something. That I reminded you of your old Silencer.” She paused, and bit her lip, and she thought she saw him shift, but she shook her head. “Why did you say that?”

 

He regarded her from across the table for a long moment and she shuddered under his--unnerving--gaze as he steepled his fingers in front of him, his eyes tracing her features, and she fought to keep herself from breaking away. He let out a soft chuckle, and gave a slight--so slight she might have imagined it--shake of his head. 

 

“Perhaps I will tell you another time. Later.”

 

When she went to argue, he dissolved into the air, leaving her alone, again, in the dim, stone room. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! Another update, somewhat sooner than the last one. I had all kinds of plans to pump a lot of work out these two weeks now that I have the time off, but I got hit with some really funky news--and I don't even know if it's *that* bad yet--and it's really gotten to me. I'm still planning on recommitting to my update/editing schedule so I can get the first two branches wrapped up. 
> 
> Thank you everyone who's left comments/kudos/just enjoyed the writing because it really makes my day. I feel like I always say that, but it's true. I never get tired of seeing what you guys write or the notifications about kudos or anything; I still grin like a damn idiot when they happen. And I'm sorry for any mistakes anyone might come across. If you see something, please don't be shy and let me know. It's the only way I'll get any better. One day I'll break down and ask someone to help me edit, but today is not that day. I don't want to submit anyone else to my wonky schedule yet.


	15. The First Branch, Chapter Fourteen: The Singing of the Birds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There are some graphic descriptions in here, regarding injuries.   
> Also, this chapter, I think, is quite a bit longer than some of the others.

It was early morning when she felt a hand jar her shoulder, jolting her out of her sleep. Her attention snapped to the owner of the hand, and she frowned when she saw Astrid leaning over her, a smile curved along her mouth. 

 

“I did not want you to oversleep,” Astrid told her, and Gwyneira blinked as the room swam into focus, and the edges that haloed Astrid’s face smoothed and sharpened, even as Gwyneira nodded.

 

“Er, thanks, I think,” she mumbled, her voice hoarse, and she heaved herself into a sitting position and wrapped her arms around herself. “Is it time?”

 

Astrid nodded. “You’ll make better time if you leave for Castle Dour now. When you get there, you’ll present your Writ of Passage to the officer in charge--Commander Maro.”

 

“Maro?” Gwyneira questioned, swallowing, and the ache that had begun to ease in her stomach boiled back to life. 

 

Astrid hummed, reaching towards Gwyneira’s face and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Yes, you remember him. You’ll gain access to the kitchens, and then the Emperor. You’ll be posing as a chef, so you should be able to poison him rather easily. Oh,” Astrid said as she began to dig through a small bag at her side. She pulled a small packet out and handed it to Gwyneira. “You’ll want to take this: it’s called jarrin root. It’s a fast-acting poison; it should kill Titus Mede immediately.”

 

Gwyneira reached out to pluck the tiny parcel from Astrid’s fingers, and she stared at the item for several seconds, before she shook her head and blinked back to meet Astrid’s gaze.

 

“I’ll start heading out, then,” she said, still fondling the pocket, and she jumped when she felt Astrid clap her hand on her shoulder. “Astrid?” she asked, frowning at the other woman’s gaze, feeling something stutter in her chest. 

 

“Take care when you’re out there. The Penitus Oculatus is dangerous: highly trained and vigilant. If you think they were on-guard at the Vici wedding, think how alert they’ll be with the Emperor here.”

 

Gwyneira let out a startled laugh. “Makes sense,” she breathed through a reedy voice. “I’ll--er--I’ll be careful. Um,” she paused, placing her small package in her satchel, patting the bag, and then she scratched the back of her head, “thanks, Astrid.” She took another look at the blonde, then gave a curt nod.

 

* * *

 

“Stop right there,” Commander Maro stated, his gruff voice startling Gwyneira when she stepped through the foyer of Castle Dour, “the tower is off-limits until further notice.”  She stopped short and nodded, fumbling through the folds of her apron, and she presented her writ to him. He scanned the document, Gwyneira watching his eyes move over the words, and he glanced back up at her, giving her a thin smile. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Maro apologised. “I should have guessed by your clothes; of course you’re a chef. We’ve all been eagerly waiting your arrival,” he told her as he shook her hand and clasped her arm in his other palm, the grip firm, and she felt her blood thrum through her veins, sweat prickling at her temples. She looked up at the large man and felt his strong fingers curl around her bicep a moment longer than she felt appropriate as her vision began to blur--salt stinging behind her lids, and she blinked the gritty sensation away and gave the man a twitch of her mouth, and he dropped her arm, giving the back of her hand a pat. 

 

“Come, through that way, straight to the tower and back to the kitchen. Gianna’s expecting you. Woman won’t shut up about it,” he chuckled, giving Gwyneira a nudge, and she let out a sharp bark of laughter, cringing when she heard it echo in the castle hall. “Go on then,” he told her, and she scampered off, down the way he’d indicated to her. 

 

She made it to the kitchen, closing the door behind her, and she pressed her forehead against the wooden surface, catching her breath and trying to slow the pounding of her heart behind her breastbone. She drank in the warm air, and jumped when she felt another hand on her shoulder. The other woman started when Gwyneira spun to face her. 

 

“Sorry,” Gwyneira mumbled, running her fingers through her hair, “it’s been a long trip.”

 

The woman--Gianna--drew back, her eyes wide. Gwyneira opened her mouth, but was cut off by Gianna’s laughter. “Oh, you’re a Breton!”

 

Gwyneira’s mouth hung open and her brows furrowed as she stared at Gianna, who raised her hands in front of her, still laughing. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I just--I never expected the Gourmet to be a Breton. It just seems so...” she trailed off, sweeping her gaze up and down Gwyneira, before she let out another laugh, “expected. All of the best chefs have come from High Rock, and you look so young…”

 

“Alright, well, yes, here I am!” Gwyneira chirped, straightening herself and smoothing down the white frock and apron before she fished the crumpled cloth of her hat and shoved it over her hair. “I didn’t come here to chit-chat; there’s food to be made,” she forced out, and Gianna snapped to attention. 

 

“Oh, of course! Sorry,” Gianna said, ducking her head down a bit, “I’m a little excited, I suppose.” She gestured for Gwyneira to follow her to the kitchen hearth. “The Emperor’s requested your signature dish,” she beamed, “the Potage le Magnifique.” She glanced down at the pot, and Gwyneira saw her cheeks glowing in the firelight, and she spoke again. “I’ve taken the liberty of getting started,” she admitted. “But the cookbook only says so much, and every chef makes it their own way. I was hoping we might make it your  _ special _ way?” 

 

“Really?” Gwyneira swallowed and blinked several times, and she rubbed her palms over the tops of her thighs. “Wow,” she tittered, “how keen. Er--alright, then.” She bobbed her head. “Alright, then. My way. Right.”

When Gianna continued to stare at Gwyneira, Gwyneira only looked back until Gianna cleared her throat to speak. “So,” she began, “we can get started now; the base broth is already boiled,” she told Gwyneira. “What do you think we should add?”

 

Oh why on Nirn didn’t she cook with her mother as often as her mother nagged her about it, Gwyneira thought. 

 

Averting her gaze, she rubbed the back of her neck and choked out, “Well, what do you think we should put in?”

 

Gianna’s eyes widened before she smiled and crossed her arms. “Oh, I get it. This is a test, right? You want to see how well I know the Potage.”

 

“Yes. Yes, I do.” Gwyneira sucked in a breath and felt her lungs ache.

 

“Well, how about,” Gianna broke off and pressed her index finger to her mouth, and Gwyneira felt the hair at the nape of her neck itch as it clung to the moisture that had gathered there. “I know. Frost salts,” Giana finished. “That should do the trick, right?”

 

“Sure!” Gwyneira exclaimed, shoulders deflating. “Sounds good to me. Go on then.” Her hands brushed against the lump that rested against her leg, nestled in the folds of her apron, and her stomach clenched. 

 

“Yes, that looks great!” Gianna gushed, and Gwyneira snapped her attention back to the broth, watching the liquid simmer over the flames. “Now, what would you suggest we add?”

 

Gwyneira released a long breath through her pursed lips, shifting her weight back and forth on her feet, and her eyes skimmed the counter behind Gianna and fell on a couple amber-coloured bottles. “How about mead. Er--a splash, I mean,” she stuttered.

 

Her mother had used mead in her cooking. 

 

People liked that, right? It  _ was  _ a bit posh-- 

 

She felt the knot in her gut loosen when Gianna hummed in agreement. “I suspected as much,” she said, and Gwyneira had to close her eyes for a moment. 

 

Gianna stirred the concoction for several turns and Gwyneira thought she might be able to tell the other woman to add a giant’s toe and she’d probably do it, but she shook her head and watched the golden liquid swirl in the pot. 

 

“Oh! Nirnroot!” Gwyneira said when Gianna glanced back up at her. “And you decide the last ingredient,” she interjected before Gianna could get a word in. 

 

“My choice, hmm? Alright, then,” she stepped away and picked a sprig of Nirnroot that was growing in a pot near the window. “How about tomatoes? Simple, yet infinitely flavorful. Don't you agree?” Gwyneira shrugged at Gianna’s back. The chef turned back to the broth and dropped the root and the diced tomatoes in. After a beat, she said, “Well the stew seems done. Add anything else, and we may dilute the distinct flavors. So,” she tilted her face towards Gwyneira, “is that it?”

 

Gwyneira opened her mouth, the weight of her tiny parcel burning against her thigh, and she patted the spot where it lay. Her blood rushed in her ears, the sound muffling the crackle of the wood, and she felt herself flush in the heat and under Gianna’s eyes now peering at her. She reached in and fumbled with the parchment-encased herb and she slid it out from its hiding place. She handed it to Gianna. 

 

“Here,” she stammered, tongue thick and dry in her mouth, “it’s a special herb. A secret,” she explained. 

 

Gianna accepted the root, and eyed it with a small frown on her mouth. “Are you sure? The Potage tastes perfect, anything else might--”

 

“Now, now!” Gwyneira’s thready voice interrupted, and she cleared her throat to dislodge the tremble that had taken hold there, “Who’s the Gourmet, here?” she laughed, too sharp, too loud, but Gianna didn’t seem to pay any mind. 

 

Instead, the woman smiled and dropped the root into the stew. “Heh, I'm sorry. Of course,” she chuckled. “It's your most famous recipe. All right then, your secret ingredient's been added. And if I may say so..” she trailed off, and Gwyneira saw the muscles in her jaw and cheek working as she worried the corner of her mouth and wrung her hands. “It has been an honor, getting a chance to prepare a meal with, well...the best chef in the entire Empire.” A trembling breath escaped Gianna, who then hoisted the pot up off of its supports and held it in front of her. “I'll carry the stew pot, and lead the way up to the dining room. I'm sure the Emperor and his guests are dying to meet you.” 

 

“Ha!” Gwyneira exclaimed, almost tripping over the cobblestone floor. “What a funny choice of words! That you used! ‘Dying,’” she chuckled. “Funny.” When Gianna paused, Gwyneira beamed at her and Gianna continued down the corridor while Gwyneira rubbed her hands along her waist, her hips, her arms, and finally crossed them when she caught a few sideways glances from the castle guards. 

 

When they entered the dining hall, Gwyneira took a moment to survey the room, the idle chatter buzzing around her, and her eyes kept flitting to the door. The emperor’s nasal voice directed the conversation, and she heard the splash of broth as the Potage was served. 

 

“Of course,” she heard him say, “I have the honour of the first taste.”

 

And laughter, polite and restrained, and the vice around her throat tightened. 

 

A gasp, a gurgle, and another splash and piercing screams that reverberated against the walls. She leaped over the table as a guard grabbed for her, the cacophony of voices crescendoing and she burst through the exit, onto the bridge Astrid had told her about, and a slow, crisp sound, flesh hitting flesh, made her hesitate. 

 

She wasn’t being followed. 

 

The weight in her stomach turned to ice and simmered and her blood froze in her veins, her feet rooted to the ground. 

 

Commander Maro stepped forward, above the bridge on the landing before her, and clapped for her. She dislodged her heavy feet and took a step back, but she found two Penitus Oculatus soldiers behind her. “That man was, by far, the most insufferable decoy the Emperor has ever employed. I'm glad he's dead,” Maro told her, lips curved upwards, and he began to descend down the side until he reemerged, still some feet from her. “Ah, but I'm even happier that you killed him. You, an assassin for the Dark Brotherhood, have just made an attempt on the Emperor's life. Would have succeeded, had it been the real man. Surprised?”

 

“That’s a word for it,” she mumbled, jumping when she felt the two men behind her grab her arms. Maro held a hand up.

 

“So was I, when a member of your "Family" came to me with the plan. We worked out a deal, you see. An exchange. I get you, and the Dark Brotherhood gets to continue its existence,” he continued, and she felt the air leave her. She stumbled, and would have fallen had the soldiers not heaved her back up, their fingers digging into her bruising flesh, and her shoulders strained under their hold.

 

She was so stupid. She was so stupid to have ever gotten mixed up with the fucking Dark Brotherhood. She should have just fucked off to High Rock and risk being found by them instead of this. Her cheeks grew wet and she tasted salt along her lips and gave a sniffle, and she hated herself for it. 

 

Maro stepped closer to her and lifted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. His son had favoured him.

 

“Please,” she choked, the word wobbling as water dripped down her jaw, and she felt the vibrations of the men’s amusement behind her.

 

“You’re upset about this, I can see that," he spoke low, his voice almost soothing. "How about this? I kill you, and butcher each and every one of your miserable friends?" He scoffed. "Your Sanctuary's being put to the sword right now. That's what I think of this ‘deal.’ You killed my son!” he raged. The hand on her jaw tightened and she cried out. “All of you! And now you'll pay the price.”

 

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry!”

 

He drew his hand back and struck her across the face, and she felt her neck protest under the sudden movement and saw lights burst before her eyes. “Kill her,” he ordered, “and make sure there's nothing left to bury.” 

 

He took a step away, but paused and turned back again, eyeing her. “Listener,” he began, his tone low. “Answer me: you have children, right? In Whiterun?”

 

Gwyneira felt the colour leech from her face, and her vision darkened around the periphery, and she staggered again. “You can’t,” she pleaded, struggling, and she tried to lurch forward. “They’re  _ children _ !”

 

She didn’t get to hear what he would have responded, because the second Maro opened his mouth, an ethereal blade burst through his adam’s apple, and Gwyneira felt the hot shower of blood splatter against her face. 

 

The momentary shock for the Oculatus agents behind her was enough for her to wriggle free and send a bolt of lightning hurtling towards one, while Lucien slit the other’s throat. 

 

She was hysterical, tears and blood mingling on her cheeks and her hair stuck to her face, and her feet slipped and skidded on the slick stone.

 

Later, she thought the slap was a bit overkill and she glared at Lucien. 

 

“We need to get to Falkreath,” he demanded. “Your Family needs you.”

 

“Fuck you, Lucien!” she shrieked. “He threatened my children; I need to get back to Whiterun,” she snarled, trying to push past him.

 

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “No, you don’t. You need to get back to the Sanctuary. You can go back to Whiterun later.”

 

She grappled with him, her eyes stinging. “You’re a fucking monster, you know that? Fuck all of--”

 

“Do you really think the Penitus Oculatus would attack a small home in Whiterun, in public, before they finished with the Sanctuary?” he hissed. She fell still and, after a second, shook her head. “They’re fine,” he told her. “We must go now.”

 

* * *

  
  


The sight that greeted Gwyneira horrified, as much as it mystified, her. Festus, pinned by arrows, and arms spread: a parody of a welcome, and she fought to keep her stomach from expelling itself. She dismounted from Shadowmere and raced towards the entrance, where several barrels sat and, as she peered inside, were filled with oil. She shoved the door open, flinching at the heated air that stung her eyes and scalded her lungs. She coughed and overheard faint voices drifting out of the smoke.

 

“So, who do you think it was?” said one, and the wet sound of steel sliding out of meat accompanied him. 

 

“Who cares?” another replied.

 

She came closer, and saw the outline of an Argonian on the floor, beside two soldiers, and her heart lurched in her chest. 

 

“Who’s there?” the first one demanded, and Lucien materialised behind him and sank his blade into his back. 

 

At the look of surprise on the other’s face, Gwyneira rasped, “Sorry, he does that sometimes.”

 

The soldier lunged at her, catching on her sleeve and she felt the material grow wet and her flesh sticky. She sucked in a scorched breath and released a bolt of lightning towards him, and she watched as it left dark tracks along his exposed skin as he dropped before her. 

 

The smoke obscured her sight, but she caught a glimpse of a large beast kneeling on the floor, its body riddled with arrows--

 

and she remembered what Veezara had told her.

 

“Arnbjorn,” she whispered, looking at the lupine form, “damn.”

 

Her eyes darted to Lucien when she saw him snap his attention to a smoke-filled doorway. The sound of scuffling floated above the crackling of the flames against the wood and moss, and she heard the clank of metal screeching against each other. She ran towards the noise, feeling Lucien’s icy presence pricking her back as sweat poured down her face and her clothing stuck to her waist, under breasts, and pinched under her arms, when she came upon Nazir, whose gaze she drew as he finished--

 

Decapitating a man.

 

Gwyneira choked on bile and smoke. Her coughing grew worse, and Nazir still called her name as the flames grew higher and they singed the hem of her clothing. She felt her throat burn and her chest protest against the lack of air, and a voice broke into her thoughts, over her retching and the roar of the fire and creaking of the wooden beams. 

 

_ My child, _ she heard whispered in her ear,  _ come to me. _

 

Her eyes fell on the Night Mother’s coffin, and she swallowed.

 

_ If you want to live, come to me. _

 

She felt frigid fingers grasping her shoulders and struggled for a moment before a harsh voice scolded her for being a “stupid girl” and she was shoved into the metal sarcophagus. 

 

_ You’ll be alright now _ , the Night Mother crooned.  _ Sleep, now. _

 

“ _ Mean Old Torchbug, full of tricks/ His voice crackling like fire/ Advice he shares conflicts/ Sends Little Scrib into trouble dire _ \--”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


She became aware of metal screeching and scraping against rock and water rushing overheard.

“Hurry, Nazir! I think she’s in there!”

 

A huff, and pant, a forced, “I’m doing the best I can!” A thud, and she felt the casket lurch and she shuddered upon being pressed even closer to the Night Mother’s leathery body. “I don’t exactly see you helping,” another groan, “you--stupid--she-devil!”

 

“I’m not exactly built for manual labour, now am I?” 

 

Gwyneira snorted, the sound echoing in the enclosed space.

 

“I hear her, Nazir!”

 

The coffin was hoisted up and she stumbled, crashing into its doors, and light flooded the inside and blinded her as the back give way and she stumbled into Nazir’s arms, Babette standing beside him and looking up at her. Both of their faces were streaked with soot, Nazir’s clothing frayed and the hems blackened, and Babette’s hair was unkempt and matted with sweat.

 

“What the fuck?” Gwyneira gasped, steadying herself and she hunched over, gagging, though nothing came out. She stood back up, taking in deep gulps of the fresher air of the forest. 

 

“Take it easy,” he said, thumping his palm on her back when she began to cough. “You’ve been through a lot.”

 

“You’re not kidding,” she mumbled, wiping her mouth with the back of her arm. She shivered, crossing her arms and rubbing her palms up and down her biceps. She turned to face Nazir when she heard another whisper.

 

_ You must seek out Astrid, inside the Sanctuary. _

 

“Wait, what?” she said aloud, and Nazir eyed her. 

 

“Listener?”

 

_ Find her. _

 

After a long stretch, when nothing else was said, she faced Nazir. “I think we have to go back inside,” she murmured.

 

Nazir frowned. “Pardon?”

 

“What do you mean?” Babette asked.

 

“Astrid’s still inside,” Gwyneira said, tripping over her tongue. “The Night Mother--er, she told me.”

 

“Nazir, we have to go,” Babette insisted, tugging on Nazir’s arm. “We have to find Astrid, if there’s even a hope that she’s still alive in there. We have to.”

 

Nazir nodded and Gwyneira bolted for the door, smoke still lingering in the air, and the scent of charred flesh and ozone burned her throat and eyes. She wiped the back of her arm across her face, smearing the dried blood and sweat there, as she made her way towards an antechamber and the scent of nightshade wafted over to her and carbon assaulted her sinuses.

 

A blackened form, with frizzled, matted, hair lay on the ground before her, an ebony dagger nearby, and Gwyneira saw its chest rise and fall, wheezing, the damp sound created goose pimples on Gwyneira’s arms. 

 

“Oh, gods,” Gwyneira breathed and ran to the body. “Astrid…”

 

“Thank Sithis. You’re alive,” Astrid said, her voice escaping her throat in a wheeze, and Gwyneira tried to shush her. “No, I need to say this. I don’t--I don’t have much time.” 

 

Gwyneira’s hands clenched and unclenched as she knelt down by Astrid, and she reached out only for her palms to hover over the woman’s hand, her fingers twitching as her eyes shimmered in the candlelight. 

 

Astrid gasped, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” She groaned, her lids closing for a moment, and Gwyneira winced at the sound of the roughened skin rubbing against itself before she focused back on Astrid as she began speaking again. “The Penitus Oculatus...Maro...I’m so sorry for everything. It’s all my fault. Maro said he’d leave the Brotherhood alone if I gave you to them.” Tears leaked from her clenched eyes and the ice that lined Gwyneira’s veins melted, soothing the embers there. “I was such a fool. I nearly killed you, like--like I’ve killed everyone else. Like--” her breath stuttered, and she seemed to swallow a soft sob, “but--you’re alive,” she whispered. “Listen to me. Please, listen to me.”

 

Gwyneira nodded and leaned in, closer to Astrid, close enough that the acrid air turned her stomach and she could  _ hear _ the air struggle to travel in and out of Astrid’s lungs. Astrid opened her bloodshot eyes. “I thought I could save us, but I was wrong. But  _ you’re still alive _ . There’s still a chance to start over, to rebuild.” Astrid opened her reddened eyes. “That’s why I did--did this. I prayed to the Night Mother.” 

 

“Y-yeah,” Gwyneira stuttered through brambles and saltwater, “I kind of noticed.”

 

“It’s in your blood, Sauveterre,” Astrid told her. Gwyneira frowned and pressed her palm to her clavicle. The stone dug into Gwyneira’s knees, sharp and still radiating heat, and she went to respond, to question, but Astrid continued. “No, please, don’t argue with me. It is. I’ve known for a while, but it doesn’t matter. You can save us. You have to. The Night Mother was right, in choosing you. It makes sense now--” she took a wet breath in, her chest rattling, and the room grew blurry for Gwyneira, before she blinked the sheen away. “The old ways guided us, protected us. I was a fool to oppose them. I just wanted to keep my family safe.”

 

“Astrid,” Gwyneira murmured, forcing the lump in her throat down, and she--softly--reached to touch Astrid’s arm, cringing at the hiss it drew from her. She sprouted frost along her palms, chilling the raw flesh of the other woman. “Astrid, it’s fine.”

 

“No, you don’t understand. I prayed to the Night Mother. To prove my sincerity.” Astrid fixed Gwyneira with her hazel stare, cutting through the veil before the younger woman’s eyes. “I am the Black Sacrament.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You lead this Family now,” Astrid insisted. “I’m giving you that,” her eyes darted to the dagger next to her, “my Blade of Woe, so that you can see it through. By rights, the blade should be yours anyway. Please,” she said, her eyes red-rimmed and her breathing shallow, “you must kill me,” she groaned. 

 

“What do you mean it should be mine?” Gwyneira questioned, picking up the blade.

 

“Listener…”

 

“No! Tell me!” she shouted, her other hand still gripping Astrid’s forearm.

 

Nazir cut in, “Listener, please. Look at her.”

 

“Astrid, damn it, what do you mean?” Gwyneira demanded.

 

But the other woman whimpered, and Gwyneira let out a muffled shriek before she plunged the knife into Astrid’s heart.

  
  
  


No matter how much mead she drank, Gwyneira wouldn’t be able to rid herself of Astrid’s last “thank you.”

  
  
  
  


A chill cupped her shoulders, and she almost turned to snap at Nazir to back off when she caught sight of the blue glow emanating from them. She clutched the dagger to chest and slumped forward, her chest and throat tight, and her cheeks stung with tracks of saline dripping over them. 

 

“You are far, far too soft, girl,” a deep timbre rumbled in her ear. 

 

“Go away,” she said, shrugging his hands off.

 

“You must go speak with the Night Mother.”

 

“She can find me herself if she wants to talk to me.”

 

The hands returned, airy fingers bruising her joints, and a harsh, “Go. Now,” echoed in the ruined room. 

 

She pulled herself up and pushed past both Nazir and Babette and stomped towards the coffin, flinging it open and hissing, “What?”

 

_ Now, my child, is that any way to speak to your Mother? _

 

Gwyneira bit her tongue and clamped her lips until they turned white.

 

_ My, you are a stubborn girl. But what are you doing still dawdling around here for? You still have a contract to fulfill. _

 

“Are you out of your mind? Everyone here is dead,” she pointed out. “They know the Emperor’s in danger--

 

_ But they don’t. They think the Dark Brotherhood is gone. And Maro is dead. Go back to Whiterun, Listener. That is where you’ll find Amaund Motierre. Speak with him again. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you. _

 

Gwyneira stared at the corpse, at the way her limbs were twisted and withered, the ever-present grin of her exposed teeth, and the thin locks of hair that crowned the top of her skull. 

 

“I have a lot of questions,” she finally said.

 

_ I imagine you do. But go, for now. And tell Nazir of this. _

  
  
  


Nazir and Babette were leaning towards each other, muttering and glancing at Astrid’s body, and a pang stabbed at Gwyneira’s chest. They turned upon hearing her return to the room, and Nazir straightened his back.

 

“I’m going back to Whiterun,” she announced. “To--to speak to Amaund Motierre. About the contract.”

 

“Amaund Motierre? The contract?” he questioned. “You’re still going to do it?”

 

Gwyneira bit her lip and saw Babette turn and examine the ceiling of the burnt out room. For someone so gifted in stealth, she thought, Babette was terrible at being inconspicuous. She looked back at Nazir and nodded. “I--I guess I am.” She ignored the lead in her legs. “I think...I don’t have much choice in the matter.”

 

Nazir raised a brow, but scoffed, “All right, then. Go. Go, my Listener. Find out what that slimy bastard Motierre has to say, then send the Emperor to Sithis.” He glanced around, exhaling through his nose and surveying the damage around them. The ash, the splintered beams, the tattered tapestries. She saw him shake his head. “Ah, but when you're done, there's no use returning here, is there?” 

 

Gwyneira shrugged, and she kicked at the ground before her, disrupting the debris there.

 

“I was thinking,” he mused, “the Dawnstar Sanctuary. We could make a proper home there.” With his attention back to her, he said, “Listen, when you're finished with this Emperor business, meet Babette and me there. I'll find some way to move the Night Mother. Don't worry.” He sighed, then clapped his hands, once. “Now go!” he told her, “And come back with a barrel full of gold, hmm?” he grinned. He turned his gaze over his shoulder at the diminutive vampire. “Babette, my girl - pack your things. We're moving,” he announced.

 

She turned and smiled, fangs peeking out and glittering. “Oh, good,” she said. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

 

* * *

 

  
  
  


The journey to Whiterun was cold, and lonely. Lucien failed to make another appearance after her last conversation with the Night Mother, and she worried over how she’d become used to his company over the last several weeks. Though she shuddered thinking about the way his eyes had traced her face, his gaze weighing on her shoulders before she left Falkreath.

 

When she finally crept through the door of Breezehome--long after it had grown dark and the stars twinkled above her with Masser and Secunda hidden from view--the fire still burned in the pit, warming the little home. 

 

She heard a creak as little Lucia stepped out of her and Sofie’s room, and her eyes widened upon seeing Gwyneira. Gwyneira’s vocal cords tangled around themselves when Lucia ran up to her with a soft, “Mama!” and she flung her arms around her, catching Gwyneira off guard. Her hands began to tremble when she rested them on Lucia’s bony shoulders, and she dropped to her knees, kissing the girl on the forehead before she burst into tears and clung to the small form and sobbing into her hair.

 

“Mama?” Lucia asked.

 

Gwyneira choked, words caged in the trap of her throat, and she continued to hold Lucia close to her, tremours wracking her body. Lucia’s hazel strands grew damp, but she began to stroke Gwyneira’s hair, and before long Lydia, drawn by the noise, stepped downstairs and Sofie, bleary-eyed and flushed, crept out of the little bedroom, too. 

 

“Mama, what’s wrong?” Sofie asked. 

 

Gwyneira just cried harder. Lucia continued to brush her fingers through her mother’s dark strands as the frock under Gwyneira’s cheeks grew damp and stuck to her skin.

 

“Mama, I don’t know how to make you stop crying,” Lucia whispered. 

 

Gwyneira heard, rather than saw, Lydia come up behind and her hands prised her away from Lucia and rubbed circles on her shoulders. “My Thane--Gwyn--why don’t we get you settled into bed? You must have had a long trip.”

 

She nodded--sniffling, coughing--scalding tears clinging to her lashes, and Lydia patted her back, directing her up the stairs. 

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me a bit longer to get out, and I had a really hard time going through this chapter, but I hope that it's enjoyable. At least a little. Thank you so much to everyone who's enjoying this so far, and for all of the comments and kudos. This branch of WKaB is wrapping up, only a few more chapters left, and then there might be a bit of a break between the end of this branch and the beginning of the second branch, which is already partially (extremely partially) written. 
> 
> Please forgive any errors; I do try to edit as best I can, but I don't think I get everything.


	16. The First Branch, Chapter Fifteen: On the Seas of Wound and Rhyme

Amaund Motierre was a skeezy little man, Gwyneira decided as she strode into his tiny room at Hulda’s. She slammed the door behind her and the man jumped at the sound as it echoed through the inn. 

 

“I had nothing to do with any of that, I swear,” he pleaded. 

 

She rolled her eyes and fixed her expression into a scowl. “I know that--”

 

“It was all Maro--”

 

“ _ I said I fucking know that _ ,” she snapped. “You’re going to tell me where the goddamn emperor is or, so help me Mara, I will strangle you with my own stockings,” she promised. “Do not think I’m kidding”

 

He shook his head, his hair flailing in his eyes.

 

“Good,” she told him through clenched teeth. “Now tell me where I can find him and get this shit over with.”

 

“You mean,” he stammered, “after all of this, you’re still going to fulfill the contract?”

 

“Guess it’s your lucky fucking day, Motierre,” she bit out, feeling a pinch at the base of her skull. She swallowed and pulled her robes around her even tighter when her spine tingled. “You better start talking before I get really irritated,” she said when the silence stretched out too long for her liking. 

 

“Oh, do not get me wrong, this is fantastic news. Outstanding! Of course I’ll tell you what you need to know. Oh,” he went on, “you have no idea how pleased I am to hear you say that.” Gwyneira scowled and took a step closer to him and he hurried to say, “The Emperor is still in Skyrim, but not for long,” he warned. “He's on board his ship, the Katariah, moored offshore in the Solitude Inlet. But you must hurry! If you can get onboard that ship. Kill Titus Mede II, and I will reveal the location of the dead drop that holds your payment.”

 

She thought for a moment that she might try to just beat that information out of him, but a throbbing behind her eyes distracted her. “Right,” she said, swallowing against the heaviness in her throat and stomach, “you’d better.”

  
  
  


* * *

 

  
  


Gwyneira crept through the cargo hold of the Katariah, soaking wet and cold. She conjured a small fireball--embers, really--and dried herself to a manageable level and no longer left small ponds behind her. She stayed close to the walls, holding her breath in the presence of the remaining Penitus Oculatus, muffling her steps and clinging to the shadows with her heart pounding in her ears and the blood boiling in her veins. 

 

With every step, every whine of the floorboards, her beating heart stuttered and she felt the urge to retch. 

 

She spied the door, at last, to what must be the Emperor’s chambers. The carvings on it ornate, and inlaid with gold, and she let her fingers trace their patterns, the coolness of the goldleaf seeping into her skin. 

 

Gwyneira went to try the doorknob and, instead of the lock catching on the tumblers, it gave way and swung inwards. She almost took a step back, but grit her teeth and marched in, bringing her hand to the hilt of the Blade of Woe at her waist--

  
  
  


\--and she saw Titus Mede II sitting at his desk, a placid expression on his face. His brow was smooth and lips relaxed, and he leaned back in his seat, in his violet and carmine silks and ermine fur, his fingers steepled as he rested his elbows on the surface before him.

 

She swallowed, and shut the door behind her. 

 

He  _ smiled _ at her.

 

“And, once more, I prove Commander Maro the fool,” he told her, wry grin on his lips, and she found herself nodding. “I told him you can't stop the Dark Brotherhood. Never could.” She blinked, her hand trembling over the dagger’s handle, and he motioned for her to walk closer. “Come now, don't be shy. You haven't come this far just to stand there gawking.”

 

She found her voice buried beneath brambles and thorns, and she mumbled, “You--you were expecting me?”

 

His eyes widened. “But of course,” he said. “You and I have a date with destiny.” He chuckled. “But so often it is with assassins and emperors, is it not?” His expression smoothed over once more and he nodded. “Yes, I must die. And you are the one meant to deliver the killing blow, Gwyneira Sauveterre.”

 

This time, she did stumble back, almost crashing into the door. The pit in her stomach widened, and she clenched the blade. “How do you know my name?” she demanded, but that didn’t stop her voice from catching on those same barbs. 

 

He gave her a small smile, nothing more than a quirk of the corners of his mouth. “It seems there are records of you being arrested crossing the border, and here you are.”

 

The air rushed out of the room and Gwyneira braced her arm behind herself, pressing her palm against the wall. “Here I am,” she rasped.

 

He regarded her, nodding once, before he continued, “A rather uncommon name, for the Skyrim/Cyrodiil region: Gwyneira Sauveterre, daughter of Adalard Sauveterre and Lunete Thibault. Your father served in my army during the Great War, correct?”

 

Gwyneira nodded. “He was at the Battle of the Red Ring. He said he owes his life to you.”

 

The Emperor shook his head. “Many soldiers can take the glory for that; it was not I alone.” He sighed, bringing his arms to rest in his lap. “You can imagine that Commander Maro was quite thorough in his investigation, once your leader made that deal with him.” She shifted her weight back and forth and heard the blood rush in her ears. “Only a few people know your name, if that puts your mind at ease; Maro thought it prudent to keep the information quiet, lest anyone tip you off,” he then told her. He hummed, drumming his fingers. “Your name goes farther back than that, though, doesn’t it. The end of the Third Era?”

 

She scowled and made a sound of agreement in the back of her throat. “Yeah, you could say that. There’s even a stupid tragedy written about it.”

 

He chuckled. “Yes, it’s still quite popular in the Imperial City: two humans standing between Nirn and the Prince of Destruction, one who became the Avatar of Akatosh.” He chuckled. “Man we are, and though we be but mortal, we are fierce.” Then, he shook his head and sighed. “I was always rather fond of it, myself.” He peered into her, and she brought her other arm across her stomach and sniffled. “But we aren’t here to discuss theatre, are we?”

 

“No,” she agreed. “I suppose we aren’t.”

 

“Before we get to that, I wonder, would you suffer an old man a few more words before the deed is done?” he asked. 

 

The pinch behind her eyes sharpened and she rubbed the heel of her palm against them. “Yeah, I’m listening,” she muttered. 

 

“Ah,” he said, “I thank you for your kindness.” He then exhaled, and suddenly appeared very old to Gwyneira. The lines around his eyes and mouth deepened, the creasing of his forehead more pronounced now, as his complexion grew ashen. “You must kill me; I’ve accepted this. But,” he paused, dragging himself up in his seat and sitting taller, before he continued, “regardless of your path in life, I sense in you a certain…well, a certain decency. So, I ask a favour of you.”

 

She frowned, her brows and lips pinched, as she inclined her head towards him. 

 

“Many people would see me dead, but there is one who set this in motion. This person, whoever he or she may be, must be punished for their treachery. Once you have been rewarded for my assassination, I want you to kill the very person who ordered it. Would you do me this kindness?” he asked, and he leaned in and his eyes never left her face.

 

“That’s--I--I mean,” she stammered, her hand falling away from her hip, and she nodded and clenched and unclenched her fist. “I--I’ll consider it.”

 

He heaved a sigh, and his shoulders rounded as he seemed to slump forward before he stood up, drawing himself up to his full height. “Thank you,” he told her, his tone light as he walked over to the window overlooking the Sea of Ghosts that stretched before them. “Now,” he said, his hands clasped behind him, and she saw his face reflected in the window. “On to the business at hand then.”

 

“I’ll…” she bit her lip, “I’ll make it quick.”

 

“I appreciate that. Come now,” he chastised. “I will not fight you.”

 

She stepped towards him, drawing her dagger out of its sheath, and her eyes fluttered shut as she breathed in the scent of morning glory and sacred lotus. Her lids opened and she saw his own eyes were closed, and she brought her blade to his throat, and slid it across in a single swipe, the blood from the wound pouring over her hand, as he gave a final gurgle and slumped back. She caught him, stumbling under his height and weight, and laid him down on the ground. 

  
  
  


His eyes never reopened. 

  
  


She felt the sound bubble in her chest and felt the sting in her sinuses and she went to rub her face again, but stopped short when she saw the scarlet stains on her flesh and sleeve. 

 

* * *

 

  
  
  


Amaund Motierre jumped in his seat as Gwyneira burst into his room. “I did your fucking dirty work,” she snapped over Mikhael’s rendition of Ragnar the Red and pulled her hood down. 

 

He sneered up at her. “Hello to you, too.”

 

“Cut the shit, Motierre. I’ve had a shit week and a shittier month. Where’s my fucking payment?”

 

“Such manners,” he scoffed. “But yes, I heard. I heard! The news is already spreading like wildfire. You’ve served the Empire more than you can even imagine!” he enthused, and she wanted to punch him right in his rodent-like face. “Ah, but you care little for politics. Your reward is back in Volunruud, in an urn, in the chamber where we first met.” He let out a long exhale, drawing it out through thin lips. “Now, please go. Our business is, thankfully, concluded. Hopefully we’ll never have to look upon each other again.”

 

“You can say that again. But I do have one more thing I’d like to discuss,” she told him, feeling the way her fingers tingled and the charge that began to fill the room.

 

“What is it now,” he grumbled. “Your payment waits. Don’t worry; I’m not stupid enough to betray you.”

 

“He was a pretty good man,” she mumbled. 

 

“Oh, come now,” he drawled. “What does a silly girl like you know about politics.”

 

She glared at him. “Yeah, you’re right. I don’t really know much about politics, true. But I do know this: you’re nothing but a wriggling little slug of a man. Fuck you, Motierre,” she snarled, and dove for him, pressing her hand against his forehead and sent a shock through him and watched his eyes turn red and blood pour out of his ears. 

 

She stepped back before any fell on her. 

 

Mikael still sang in the background, and the sounds of the Bannered Mare continued, as usual, and she replaced her hood, covering her hair and shrouding her face as she crept back out of Motierre’s room. 

 

She had to get back home to help Lydia with dinner. 

 

* * *

 

 

When no one pursued her and no guards came to her door, Gwyneira let the tension uncoil from her spine as she stoked the fire under the cooking spit, the stew that Lydia started and left to simmer on the spit. She heard Lucia and Sofie playing together in their shared room, and smiled to herself as she stood back from the hearth. She glanced outside, watching as the buildings and streets glowed gold in the late afternoon sun, and the dappled light scattered on her floor. She turned her attention back to the pot, and gave it a couple stirs before replacing the lid and wiping her hands on her skirt. Despite the cool weather, the room itself was almost uncomfortably warm, and she rolled up her sleeves to let her arms breathe. She swept her hair up to pin it on top of her head, and popped her neck, inhaling the savory air and felt her stomach rumble. 

 

She supposed it had been some time since her last actual meal. 

 

She frowned as she considered why that was. She’d have to get going back to Volunruud, and Dawnstar, as soon as possible but

 

What was the hurry? 

 

She hoped the gold was still there. 

  
  


A knock startled her out of her reverie, and Lydia poked her head downstairs, and she appeared to start when she saw Gwyneira.

 

“Oh, Gwyn,” she said, glancing at the door and back to the other woman. “I thought you’d stepped out?”

 

Gwyneira’s brows furrowed and she shook her head. “No, I decided to just stay in. I’ve been gone a lot and--and I guess I wanted to spend some time with the girls. And give you a bit of a break,” she ended on a laugh. Lydia flashed her a smile, but her attention snapped back to the door when another three raps sounded. 

 

“Why don’t you let me get that for you, my Thane, and you just take it easy. You’ve had quite the time lately; you must be exhausted,” Lydia insisted, and Gwyneira pursed her lips. Her voice sounded off, not as smooth and controlled as it normally was, and Gwyneira felt a tickle at the back of her neck. 

 

“What’s going on?” she asked. “I can answer the door. You’ve been doing so much around here as it is,” Gwyneira said. “Besides, I’m closer,” she pointed out. She turned and walked over to the door and cracked it open. 

 

Then she slammed it shut. 

 

“What the fuck, Lydia?” she exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air and her hair slipping down from its makeshift bun.

 

“Gwyn--”

 

Another series of knocks interrupted them and Gwyneira glared at the door when a muffled “are you just going to leave me out here?” drifted in. She huffed and clenched her jaw before she faced the door again and flung the door open. 

 

“And just what do you want?” she demanded, prompting Vilkas to take a step back, still holding onto the packages he carried with them. 

 

His mouth turned down at the corners and he glared down at her. “I thought you were still gone; I brought some things by for the girls,” he answered, Gwyneira still blocking the way in and she watched him bite back a huff. 

 

“Well, as you can see, I’m home now. So, bye,” she started to close the door, but he placed his foot in the way. 

 

“At least let me drop this off for you; it’s not easy being a single mother in Skyrim--”

 

“I have plenty of help from Lydia!” she snarled, pressing her palms against his chest, but he seemed to barely notice. Fucking Nords, she thought. 

 

“Mama?” Sofie’s voice reached her ears. Before Gwyneira could say anything else, both girls were at her side, and Sofie squealed, “Uncle Vilkas!” as she hugged his leg. 

 

“ _ What? _ ” Gwyneira shrieked. 

 

Vilkas shifted the parcel in his left arm to his right and ruffled the girl’s hair as Lucia came up on his other side and repeated her sister’s motion. 

 

“What the hell is going on?” she yelled. “And don’t call him that,” she told both girls, who looked sheepish and disentangled themselves from him and stepped back behind Gwyneira. 

 

Vilkas frowned, and Gwyneira turned to tell both girls to go to their rooms. They dragged their feet, but did as they were told. Lydia stood a few feet away. Vilkas set his burden down and looked Gwyneira in the eye. 

 

“Look,” he began, and she saw him fidget where he stood, his weight shifting back and forth. “I know we got off on the wrong foot,” he admitted, “and I’m still not sure what I did, but I’ve just noticed that you’re away quite a bit, and thought you could use the help.”

 

“Aw,” she cooed, “that’s really sweet. You want to help?” she asked, and she could see his frown deepening as he sighed. “Then leave,” she told him. “I don’t need your help,” she hissed. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of my daughters without your help.”

 

“I know that,” he snapped, and he rubbed his hand over his face and into his hair. “I just want to make things a bit easier for you!”

 

“Fucking why?” she questioned. “We don’t need you--”

 

“I just do! Is that so wrong?”

 

“When I don’t want your help? Yes!”

 

He growled, and she felt heat trickle into her stomach, and she shook her head, crossing her arms in front of her and pressing them against her body. “I’ve never met such an impossible woman!” he told her, and she saw the way his light blue eyes flashed and reflected the fire in the cooking spit just beyond her shoulder. 

 

“Well, now you have, so you can leave and take your charity with you,” she replied, tightening her hold on herself and pressing her thighs together. 

 

She thought he might argue, might try to press the point, maybe loom over her some more, but he only gave her a curt nod and gathered what she noticed were groceries and mumbled an apology, and strode off into the evening, and Gwyneira shivered at the draught that replaced his presence before she shut the door. 

 

She glanced a Lydia, who was facing the stew pot--stirring the broth--and peering at Gwyneira out of the corner of her eye. Gwyneira flushed, and ran her fingers through the loose strands of her hair before pressing her hands against her stomach. 

 

“What?” she mumbled, ducking her head. 

 

Lydia quirked a brow at her. “I think he’s taken a bit of a fancy to you.”

 

Gwyneira’s cheeks burned. “So?”

 

“You might go a little easier on him.”

 

“He’s a muscle-bound idiot. And I hate him.”

 

Lydia sighed and replaced the lid and walked over to the cupboard and pulled out four bowls and set them on the table. 

 

“I’ve known Vilkas a long time, actually,” Lydia said. “He’s a decent man.”

 

Gwyneira huffed, but she saw a grin pulling at Lydia’s lips. 

 

“I mean it,” she said. “He’s been coming by every few days. I ran into him at the market and we got to catching up.”

 

“You didn’t have to tell him I was away.”

 

“I think him not seeing you at Hulda’s or the town square was enough for him to tell you weren’t in town,” Lydia said. 

 

Gwyneira’s brows knitted together. “What do you mean?”

 

Lydia just chuckled and released a drawn-out exhalation, and then called Sofie and Lucia to dinner. “They like him too,” she told Gwyneira. 

 

“Yeah, well, they’re good kids,” she muttered. “They like a lot of people.”

 

Gwyneira pretended not to notice Lydia roll her eyes, and she snapped her mouth shut when Lucia and Sofie reemerged and took their seats at the table. Lydia dished out a portion for each of them, and Gwyneira sat across from Sofie, thanking Lydia for the dinner. She let her hand hover over her spoon, and the glint of her ring caught her eye, and she blew into the shimmering liquid, her face distorting in its rippling surface. 

  
  


* * *

 

The sheets were too scratchy, Gwyneira decided, laying in bed, the moonlight peeking in through her window as she flopped onto her back. Her hair stuck to her face and her shift bunched around her thighs, and she groaned, kicking off her blankets. She could hear Lydia’s even breaths from the next room, and imagined Sofie and Lucia tucked in and Lucia mumbling in her sleep. She pressed her face into her pillow, breathing in the linen and wood that clung the surface, before she sat up, resting her chin on her knees. 

 

She popped her ankles and stretched her arms out in front of her, fighting a yawn. She wriggled a bit, the chemise still gathering around her, under her arms and over her hips, and she threw herself out of bed and ripped the material off over her head. She shrugged on a woolen frock and cinched the belt around her waist before she shoved her feet into a pair of shoes and crept down the stairs. 

 

Gwyneira made her way back to Hulda’s, the night air frigid and soothing her tepid flesh and settling her rapid heartbeat. She pushed the door open and sat in her usual spot, the inn almost eerie in its silence, and she ordered a mead from Hulda. The publican pushed the stein towards her and went to wipe out another mug. 

 

There were only a handful of other patrons there, including a man she’d never seen before. 

 

She snorted into her drink; not that that’d be surprising, she mused, given the many--many--times she was gone. A Breton, she thought. Handsome, too. Kind of tall. She glanced at him and saw him looking over at her and she whipped her face back to her mead. She felt him sit beside her, and the corner of her lip twitched. 

“Not even going to apply the ‘one stool’ rule, then?” she asked, peering at him as she straightened her back. 

 

He laughed. “Ah, no, I suppose not. I’m new in town and you looked like a pretty friendly face,” he said. 

 

She scoffed, grinning now, and shook her head. “You must be new in town,” she joked, “if you think I’m friendly.” She looked around. “I don’t think anyone else around here would say that.”

 

“Aw, come on,” he said, turning towards her, and she felt her face warm when he quirked his brow at her, “I’m sure you can be plenty friendly to the right people.”

 

The tips of her ears burned and she pressed the backs of her hands against her cheeks. “If that’s an innuendo, you’re wasting your time,” she mumbled. 

 

He guffawed and clapped her on the back. “I like you,” he said, and then held his hand out to her. “The name’s Sam. Guevenne.”

 

She raised her brows. “Huh,” she exhaled, taking his hand, “that’s kind of a funny name for a Breton,” she thought out loud, then she winced. “Shit, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say anything; my name’s stupid.”

 

He continued to chuckle, still holding her hand, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of it, and asked, “What’s your name, then?”

 

“It’s a western name,” she said, watching where their hands were joined. “Gwyneira.”

 

“Oh, well, that’s a pretty name.” Then his grin was back. “Does that come with a family name, or--”

 

She sighed and gently disengaged their hands, cradling hers in her other, and nodded. “Yeah,” she admitted. “It’s Sauveterre. I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

He held his palms towards her and shrugged. “Hey, no problem. I imagine you get enough of it as it is, right?”

 

She shrugged. “Only sometimes. I--I guess I overreact. Sorry.” Then she groaned and rested her head on the bar. “I kind of wish the name had died out,” she confessed. “So at least it wouldn’t be so fucking recognisable.”

 

“Names have history,” he said.

 

“You don’t have to tell me about it,” she said. 

 

He peered over at her. “You need to have a good time. I have a feeling you haven’t relaxed in a long time.”

 

She cracked a grin. “And what gave that away?”

 

“Ah, see? I knew it. First thing I thought when I sat down: Sam, that’s a woman who deserves a break. I bet you do for everyone else, everyone hoisting their problems on you. Anyone ever ask what you want?”

 

“Not lately,” she grumbled. 

 

“You need to let loose a little bit; you deserve it!” He exclaimed, punctuating his declaration with a slam of his palm on the bar, drawing a few stares from Hulda and the scant few drinkers remaining. She laughed, and he smiled at her, and she sat up. 

 

“Sure,” she conceded. “You’re right. So, since you have all the answers, what do you suggest?”

 

“What say you and I have a little drinking contest between friends?” he suggested, reaching into his robes and pulling out a sizeable flask.

 

Her eyes grew wide. “Oh? And what do I get if I win? You won’t be my first drinking contest, you know.”

 

His eyes lit up. “Splendid! As you might imagine, I spend quite a bit of time travelling. Easy to do, when you get as bored as I do. And believe me when I tell you, I’ve been particularly bored lately. But, I digress,” he sat the flask down, “I have, in my travels, acquired a peculiar staff you might be interested in.”

 

“A staff? Magical?”

 

“Would I wager it if it weren’t?”

 

She considered for a moment. He could be pulling her leg, but--

 

“You’re on,” she stated, grabbing his hand to shake it. His grin turned almost feral, and she felt the first prickle of apprehension tingle down her spine. 

 

“I’m gonna warn you,” he said, uncorking his flask and pouring the amber liquid into two new mugs that hadn’t been there before, and continued, “this is a special brew. Very strong stuff.” He pushed the drink into her hand and she frowned for a moment, watching the drink slosh and she lifted it to sniff. 

 

“Is this brandy?”

 

“Hey, good guess!”

 

“My father likes it. Not very popular up here,” she said.

 

He laughed again, and held his drink up. “Here are the rules: whoever can take three drinks gets the staff.”

 

“Sounds easy enough…”

 

“Good. I was hoping you’d say that,” he told her, and took the first swing.

 

Well, she noted, he didn’t keel over. That had to be a good sign. She drank hers down, too, the burn lining her throat and settling in her stomach. Her skin tingled and she and to fight down a giggle. 

 

“There you go,” he said when she didn’t quite contain herself, and he poured them each another. “Second one, down the hatch.” And she watched him knock that one back as well. 

 

Rolling her shoulders back, she lifted her mug and swallowed its contents, the passage smoother this time, and she felt herself squirm. “Another one!” she squealed, and burst into a fit of laughter before she slapped her hand over her mouth. 

 

He smiled, but shook his head. “Easy for you to say. I think I’ve hit my limit. Tell you what? One more, and the staff is yours.”

 

She held her tankard out. “Go for it,” she said, despite how fuzzy he appeared now. She blinked her eyes and he swam back into focus. He poured her beverage once more, and she tossed it back, and almost fell over the barstool. He caught her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. 

 

“Hey, you did it! The staff belongs to you!”

 

“That’s great!” she exclaimed, her tongue numb and buzzing in her mouth, and she licked her lips. She looked up at him and grinned. “You’re handsome, you know?”

 

“You don’t say?” he cooed, and she smothered her laughter into his chest. 

 

Everything was brighter, she noticed. The flames of the firepit, the lanterns, even the dappled moonlight coming in through the windows. She wobbled a bit on her seat until Sam heaved her out of it, and steadied her on her feet. She hung off of him.

 

“You’re so nice,” she told him, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, I’m usually better about holding my liquor--” she blinked and shivered, “I must be out of practise.”

 

He slung his arm around her waist. “You know what? I know a great little place not too far from here. Plenty of wine and whatever else you’d want. You’d like it.”

 

“Would I?” she teased, and felt the world go sideways. She stumbled back into his arm and bit her lip. “Oh, what the hell,” she sighed. “Lydia’s with the girls; I can stay out a little longer.”

 

His gaze sharpened, his grin exposing sharp incisors and canines. She tilted her head at their appearance, and she shrugged. “Oh? And who’s Lydia?” he sang, squeezing her a little tighter, and she smacked his shoulder, laughing.

 

“My housecarl, gutter-brain.” She watched him regard her, the light dancing in his eyes, and she felt him steer her towards the door and then a pull just under her breastbone--

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried not to make this take too long to get up xD   
> Thank you to everyone who has been enjoying this piece so far, and I hope I haven't let anyone down with this chapter. I've been working on this for a while, but hopefully I have most of the edits taken care of and I'm hoping to get the next chapter up in a week or two. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's commented and/or left kudos on this; they always mean so much to me!  
> I'm sorry this note isn't better; it's kind of late but I wanted to get this up before my work week starts back up.


	17. The First Branch, Chapter Sixteen: The Lacunox of Gwyneira

Despite the clear weather and sunny skies, the air outside of Jorrvaskr was crisp and Vilkas could see the silver clouds his breath came out in as he hacked away at the training dummy, his arms and shoulders protesting when he struck a bit too hard and took a good chunk of wood out of the mannequin with it. 

 

“What has you so glum, Vilkas?” Aela said as she came up behind him. He’d been sulking for a couple days, and she was getting sick of his kicked pup act. He scowled at her, but she only raised an eyebrow and he sighed and looked away. 

 

“It’s nothing,” he snapped. 

 

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” she teased. 

 

“Is there something you wanted, Aela?” he asked, lowering his sword to his side.

 

“Honestly? Just to see who pissed in your ale for the past few days,” she said, crossing your arms. “You’re sudden attitude doesn’t have anything to do with a certain Thane, does it? You know, dark hair, mage, couple of children? Sound familiar?”

 

Vilkas remained silent, and Aela was about to prod further when heavy footsteps walked up to them and Farkas asked, “What are we talking about?”

 

Aela turned to smirk at him. “Vilkas’s little mage in town.”

 

“Oh,” he nodded and shrugged. “I think I saw her leave a week ago with some man.” Farkas pursed his lips and his eyebrows drew together. “They were pretty deep into their cups.”

 

“You did?” Vilkas questioned, frowning. “They were?”

 

“Don’t tell me you didn’t notice she was gone,” Aela drawled. Then she laughed. “Or did you think she was just avoiding you?”

 

“Shut up,” he grumbled, but Aela spotted the light dusting of colour on his cheekbones. “I thought I saw her the day before yesterday, talking to Isolda,” he muttered. He was quiet for a moment, and felt Farkas’ eyes on him before he turned back to the training dummy and began hacking away at it again. 

 

Farkas and Aela shared a look for several long moments, with Aela inclining her head to Farkas and Farkas shaking his until Aela glared at him and he sighed. Farkas turned back to Vilkas and opened his mouth, but Vilkas cut him off.

 

“So,” he began, grunting as he brought his blade down again and Farkas winced, “do you know who she left with?”

 

“Not really. He was at Hulda’s the whole time I was. Nice fellow; bought us a round of drinks.” Farkas nodded. “Yeah, he could really hold his liquor. He was talking about some magic staff, but--er--we weren’t really paying attention.”

 

“Oh, so he’s a mage,” Vilkas mumbled. 

 

“I don’t know, probably.”

 

Vilkas snorted. “Whatever.”

 

“Why don’t you just tell her you like her?” Aela sighed.

 

“That woman is the most stubborn creature I’ve ever had the displeasure of coming across,” he said, his blows coming with more force. 

 

Aela scoffed. 

 

“She is!” he insisted. 

 

“I like her,” Aela told him.

 

He muttered something that sounded like “you would” but she chose to ignore that. 

 

“It’s none of my business if she wants to run off with some milk-drinker,” he said. Aela rubbed her temples. He paused, panting, and mumbled, “I should check on those girls.”

 

She rolled her eyes and threw her hands up. “Ysgramor, I tried,” she said. “I really tried. Vilkas,” she barked, “you need to snap out of this new attitude of yours. We have work to do, and your sulking  is becoming a bit of an issue.” She stopped, breathing through her nose and exhaled. “And, I guess, I’m a little worried about you,” she admitted. 

 

Farkas nodded, and Vilkas slumped and sheathed his sword. 

“I’m fine, you two.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I, er, I need to get going,” he told them, pushing his way past the pair, and Aela huffed at his retreating back. 

 

Then, she turned her pointed gaze back to Farkas.

 

“Did you have to tell him she left with someone?” she asked.

 

“I didn’t think he’d take it like that!” Farkas insisted. 

  
  
  
  
  


“What did she see in  _ him? _ ” Vilkas mumbled into his ale. 

 

Farkas sighed and tried not to roll his eyes. He’d finally managed to convince his brother to join him and some of the other Companions at the Bannered Mare, to take his mind off of things, but all Vilkas had managed to do was talk about the Sauveterre girl. 

 

“Vilkas,” Farkas started, “for someone who says you don’t care what she does, you’ve sure been talking about it a lot since we got here.”

 

Vilkas narrowed his eyes at the other man over his mug, but then frowned and resumed staring into his drink an breathed into it. He huffed and rested an elbow on the table in front of them, and Farkas saw Aela roll her eyes and turn to talk to Athis. 

 

“I just,” Farkas heard his brother begin, before breaking off to scowl at the table. “Nevermind,” he muttered. 

 

“Do you have it bad or what,” Ria teased. When Vilkas glared at her, she held up her hands. “What?” she asked. “I think it’s sweet!” Then she laughed. “Didn’t think you’d go for a girl like that.” Athis snorted nearby, before resuming his conversation with Aela.”

 

Vilkas shook his head. “I’m just...trying to help her get settled in. She has two little ones to look after. It can’t be easy,” he stated. Ria just stared at him, her brows knitted together. 

 

“I’m sure she has plenty of help from Lydia,” she pointed out. “Why don’t you just tell her, ‘Hey, look, I think you’re pretty and you should have a drink with me?’ I mean, wouldn’t that beat moping?” she asked. Then she arched her brown and said, “Besides, you’ve been turning down jobs and bringing the whole place down.”

 

“He can’t,” Aela said, facing the rest of the group now. “She’s run off with some mage she met here.”

 

“We don’t know that,” Vilkas snapped.

 

“Didn’t Farkas say he saw them looking pretty cozy?”

 

“I didn’t exactly say  _ that _ \--”

 

“And they’d have so much in common, too--”

 

Vilkas slammed his hands down on the table, causing Ria to jump and Aela to direct a baleful glance at him. He just blinked and looked down at his hands before picking up his drink again and peering into it. Farkas patted him on the shoulder and sighed. After a moment, Vilkas shrugged it off and shook his head before taking a huge swig out of his ale and setting it down and pushing himself away from the table. 

 

“I think I’ve had enough town gossip for the day,” he muttered. 

 

“Wait, Vilkas, I’m sorry--” Ria began, but he held up his hand and shook his head.

 

“No, it’s fine. I have to get back anyway. I need to speak with Kodlak about something.”

 

Ria frowned and glanced at Farkas, who offered her a small smile. She sat back in her chair and watched Vilkas leave. 

 

Aela broke the silence, placing her own drink on the table. “I didn’t mean anything by what I said,” she admitted. “I’m just tired of seeing him so down.”

 

Athis shrugged. “Women,” he said, and Aela punched him in the shoulder.

  
  
  
  
  


 

* * *

 

“Wake up!” a voice pierced her ears, and she whined. “That’s right, it’s time to wake up, you drunken blasphemer.”

 

Blinding pain shot between her eyes and she threw her arm over her face, groaning even at the dim light as it stung her vision. Stone pressed into her back, and her stomach threatened to revolt on her. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and she groaned.

 

“Aw, do you have a little headache?” a voice crooned and Gwyneira peeled her eyes open, her lids dragging over grit and sand and she clutched her head as she sat up. 

 

She saw a priestess glaring down at her against  a stone ceiling with light streaming in from the windows. And a giant statue of Dibella. 

 

Great.

 

She rubbed the back of her neck wincing at the ache that jolted through her at the action. Then she looked down at herself.

 

“What in Oblivion am I wearing?” she mumbled at the immodest dress, her cleaving in full view and her breasts nearly spilling out of the top, then she reached up to touch her hair and felt the remnants of what might have been a flower crown at some point. She noticed her legs and feet were cold, and no wonder why, she mused when she saw the high slit of the dress and her lack of shoes. Then she gasped and her back grew tight and she quickly patted her hip, fingers skimming near the slit and she heaved a sigh when they came into contact with her smallclothes, her spine relaxing as she slumped forward. 

 

“Don’t remember how you got here?” the priestess sneered. “Let me guess, you also don’t remember groping the statuary, either.” The woman before her had her arms crossed and blood rushed to Gwyneira’s cheeks and ears.

 

“I am so sorry,” she said, glancing back up at the statue. She’d never been particularly  _ devout _ , but...her mother was probably rolling over in her grave back in Bruma. “No, I really don’t remember what happened,” she said as she pulled herself up, stumbling a bit before the world stopped turning over. The priestess didn’t appear to be terribly impressed, her glare deepening and lips white and thin. “Er, I’m sorry to ask,” she mumbled, keeping her own eyes lowered and crossing and uncrossing her arms, “but...was there a man named Sam with me?”

 

“Dibella teaches us love and compassion to others,” the priestess began, “but I’m not going to just tell you want you want to know until you clean up the mess you made here. You aren’t walking away from this. You made this mess and you’re going to pick it up,” she scolded, and Gwyneira ducked her head, her ears burning, and she almost expected her mother to show up and haul her out by her ear. She rubbed it and nodded. 

 

She glanced around, under the scrutiny of the other woman, and took note of the black feathers, wine bottles and--

 

Was that a toe?

 

What the hell happened last night, she wondered. She bent over to retrieve the object and sighed. 

 

“Yeah,” she muttered. “Definitely a toe.”

 

“Excuse me?” the priestess snapped.

 

“Just mumbling to myself. Sorry.”

 

After a half hour of cleaning, the temple looked like what it might have before Gwyneira crashed into it, and the priestess nodded, her face much more relaxed than it had been when Gwyneira first met her. 

 

“Look,” Gwyneira said, wiping the dust and perspiration from her forehead, “I really am so sorry about the--er--mess. I mean. I do not normally do...that.” She frowned and tapped her forefinger to her lips a couple of times. “I mean, sure, maybe I’ve gotten into a tavern brawl or two, back home, but...not like...this,” she said, waving her hand around. 

 

“Well,” the priestess said, her shoulder relaxing, and her lips parted, releasing her breath, “I suppose you did pick up after yourself, and you do seem apologetic.” She shook her head. “Fine, I’ll answer your questions. I was the one awake last night, anyway.” She folded her arms and stared at her. “You were ranting when you got here, but it was slurred. You said something about Rorikstead, a wedding, and a goat. You also had this with you, but you dropped it,” she said, and handed a piece of stained parchment to Gwyneira.

 

Gwyneira peeled the note open and frowned.

 

_ We need the following to repair the staff: _

_ Giant’s Toe _

_ Holy Water _

_ Hagraven feather _

 

Well, she thought, that explains the toe. And the feathers, she supposed. 

 

And how she wound up in a temple. 

 

Then she felt the colour drain from her.

 

She was in Markarth.

 

_ Muiri _ .

 

She wanted to crawl into a hole. 

 

“Rorikstead?” she asked, folding the note and sticking it in her belt. 

 

The priestess nodded, and Gwyneira groaned. 

 

“I guess I’m heading there, then. Oh,” she said, jerking her head up and flinching when a stabbing sensation flooded her skull. “What day is it?”

 

“Loredas, the twenty-seventh,” she answered.

 

“The twenty-seventh?” she shrieked, and then clutched the sides of her head. “I’ve been gone for over a week!” she realised. “If Sam’s not dead, I’m going to kill him,” she snarled. 

 

The priestess stared after her, and Gwyneira’s eyes widened. “Not, er, literally of course. I’m just going to yell. A lot.”

  
  


* * *

 

  
  
  


“I really am glad to help,” Vilkas heard Isolda say to someone. 

 

He rolled his eyes, Isolda could try the patience of a priest with the way she could chat on and on to someone. He turned back to Greymane’s wife’s jewelry stand and caught the old woman’s eye on him, and she winked. “Have anyone special in mind, Vilkas?”

 

He scowled. “No,” he mumbled to her before he scratched the back of his neck. 

 

She hummed and pointed to a case a little off to the left-hand side, where a silver amulet with a large, smooth moonstone embedded in it. “I’ve seen her look at this more than once.”

 

Vilkas glanced at it but turned away. “I don’t know who you’re talking about, woman.”

 

Fralia smiled and inclined her head, so he turned around to see that the person Isolda was chatting to was Gwyneira. The girl had her back to him, so she didn’t see him, which he supposed was a blessing in this case. He sighed and turned back to Fralia, shrugging, but strained to hear what else he might pick up from the two young women’s conversation. He wished he hadn’t after hearing what else Isolda had to say.

 

“When you told me you were getting married, I was so happy for you. But, and I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, how could you forget where the wedding is going to be?”

 

Vilkas frowned. Married? To who? That Breton she left with earlier that week? He felt a headache build behind his eyes.

 

“Do you even know what kind of month I’ve had?” he heard Gwyneira ask, her voice high pitched and breathy. “I think I’m just nervous,” she said. “Please, Isolda, I really need to find out where the wedding is.”

 

“And after that lovely story you told me of how he proposed to you in Witchmist Grove--

 

“It’s in Witchmist Grove?”

 

He heard Isolda sigh and tell her, “No, you said it was going to be in Morvunskar.”

 

“Thank Mara. Isolda, you’re a peach. I swear, I will get that money to you, or the ring. Whichever.”  

 

She must have left because he didn’t hear anything out of Isolda, and Fralia looked up at him, her head tilted to the side as she gave him a soft smile. He stormed up to the Bannered Mare and flopped into one of the seats at the bar, barking an order for ale, and to keep it coming. At Hulda’s raised brow he ducked his head and apologized. 

 

He was soon joined by his brother and Aela.

 

“We were looking for you, Vilkas,” Farkas told him. “There’s a job that Kodlak thinks we might like.”

 

“Go without me,” Vilkas muttered into his cup. 

 

Vilkas didn’t say anything for a while and, as Farkas and Aela exchanged glances while they ordered their own drinks, he slammed his ale down on the bar. “A mage!” he exclaimed. “She’s getting married to some milk-drinking Breton mage!”

 

“Vilkas,” Aela began, “I don’t know if it’s escaped your notice, again, but Gwyneira--who I assume is the one you’re talking about--is also a Breton. And also a mage.”

 

He scoffed. “Not like that,” he argued. “What kind of household will those children of hers grow up in? Who is he even? No one knows him.”

 

Vilkas took a deep swig of his drink and Aela patted him on the back. “Maybe she’s getting cold feet,” he mumbled. “I overheard her talking to Isolda about giving the ring back to her.”

 

“Brother,” Farkas started, swirling his own stein of ale as he gazed into it, “why don’t you just tell her?”

 

“Tell her what?” the other mumbled, not lifting his gaze.

 

“Tell her you want to marry her!” Farkas burst. Vilkas and Aela both glared at him. 

 

“Maybe don’t tell her that,” Aela stated, rolling her eyes. “Maybe just talk to her in the first place.”

 

“She doesn’t want to talk to me.”

 

“Well, of course not. Not when you just started showing up with gifts for her household while she’s away.”

 

“I wanted her and her children to be provided for!”

 

“It’s weird, ice-brain. You should just go up to her, tell her you think she’s attractive and you want to get to know her better. You know, as a person,” Aela huffed. “It’s like herding puppies with you two.”

 

Farkas frowned. “What’d I do?”

 

“Nothing. Yet.” Aela knocked back the last of her drink and shook her head. “I’m still waiting.”

 

* * *

 

  
  
  


Gwyneira was going to kill him. She wouldn’t even feel bad about it. Sofie and Lucia had been out of their minds with worry, and Lydia had given her such a dressing-down when she popped back home while in Whiterun she didn’t even bother trying to disguise the fact she might as well have been slinking away to avoid the rest of Lydia’s wrath.

 

Tired and sore, her cheek still stinging with the ice-burn she’d received from one of the mages residing in Morvunskar, she stepped inside the portal and felt that tug behind her breastbone before she landed in a lush vale with lanterns strewn along the sides of the trails, and a swirling, glittering sky overhead. 

 

“Wow,” she breathed, her footsteps falling along a familiar path as she gazed at the clear river and the torchbugs that hovered over it. She could hear the sound of music floating on the balmy air, and it grew louder the further she walked. Lute notes plucked her ears, and she finally happened upon a table with people sitting at it, and a figure she recognised that she set her glare upon.

 

“Sam!” she yelled, running the rest of the way. “What the fuck?”

 

He grinned when he saw her, his eyes lighting up in a way she’d thought charming the week before, but now only made her fingers twitch in to a fist. “Hey, you made it! I was afraid you might not come,” he told her. 

 

“I really hope you have an explanation for this,” she grumbled. “What happened? I was gone for  _ days _ , with no explanation! I have kids, Sam! I stole a goat! Twice!  _ I almost got married to a hagraven _ . I trashed a fucking temple. I almost married a  _ hagraven _ !” she shrieked, drawing chuckles from the men nearby, until she conjured a ball of lightning and shot it at a tree, glaring at them.

 

Sam, the bastard, only laughed at her.

 

“I thought you might not remember your first trip here. You had a big night.”

 

“You don’t say,” she said.

 

He chuckled. “You definitely earned the Staff.”

 

“It’s what I’ve always wanted: a broken staff,” she muttered.

 

“Eh, don’t worry about that,” he told her. “You can throw all of that stuff I told you to get away.”

 

“Are you kidding me?” she snapped.

 

He nodded, still smiling, still teasing, and she grew hot and clenched her fists. 

 

“You don’t need it, you see--” he said, and his form shimmered in front of her, growing taller--and darker--with horns sprouting from his head and red markings crawling over his now ebony flesh. “--I really just needed a way to encourage you to go out and spread some merriment.”

 

“What the fuck?” she asked, her voice faint as her vision darkened around the sides, and she felt the ground spinning under her. 

 

“Ah don’t think so hard about it,” he told here, arms crossed over his armour.

 

“Who the fuck are you?” she breathed.

 

“I guess I owe you that much,” he told her. He spread his arms out. “I am Sanguine, the Daedric Prince of Debauchery.”

 

Gwyneira stared for several, long moments, taking in his appearance, her eyes growing wider and her heart thrumming in her chest, pounding against the back of her ribs, and the queasy sensation she’d had since Markarth grew, the ball of ice in there sloshing around. 

 

“I know, I know,” he sighed. “How could I lie to you? Well,” he said, shrugging, “how could I trust you until we’ve shared a few drinks? I’ve been hurt before,” he said, clutching his chest. She narrowed her eyes at him. “The last time I gave my Staff to one of you, you went and had it destroyed,” he mumbled.

 

She hummed, eyes still narrowed, then she furrowed her brows. “Wait. Wait wait wait wait,” Gwyneira said as she held up her hands towards the towering Daedric Prince in front of her, waving them around. “So, this was all for a--a prank?” she asked.

 

He looked affronted. “A prank?” he questioned. “A prank? The Daedric Lord of Debauchery does not deal in mere ‘pranks,’” he scoffed. He rubbed his chin and shrugged. “This might have begun as a minor amusement, but it wasn’t long before I realized you’d make a more interesting bearer of my not-quite-holy Staff.”

 

Gwyneira opened and closed her mouth several times, her brow furrowed and blinking her eyes in quick succession. “W-why? Why me?”

 

“Let’s be honest here,” he began, and she thought she detected a bit of a slur. “I don’t always think my decisions through. But you...you’re going places. And you remind me of someone I know.” A slow smirk spread across his face and he seemed to look out over at nothing and put Gwyneira on edge. 

 

“Can you not do that?” she asked as she wrapped her arms around her waist--a poor barrier, face turning ashen. Instead of getting a response from him, he was strangely silent. Silent for too long, with that same look in his eye. Like he found something.

 

And she still didn’t have that staff.

 

She tapped her foot on the ground, biting back the huff that wanted to escape her mouth, and his gaze refocused back on her and he seemed to...pout was really the only word she could find for it. “You know, I should drop in and see her sometime. It’s been awhile. And that chamberlain of hers keeps sending people over to see if she’s here. Last time it was some twitchy wood elf. She’s been causing me more grief now than she did as a mortal.” The grin returned to his face. “I shouldn’t complain; she’s not as bad as the last one.”

 

“I’m very confused,” she admitted, and she wondered, for a moment, if she might be trapped in a fever dream.

 

“You should tell her I said hi. And that I’m expecting us to resume our dinners. You know, when you see her again.”

 

“Again? Dinners?”

 

“Her place serves great food. And greenmote. Some of her followers really know how to throw a party. You ever have sex after drinking a couple cups of greenmote? Fantastic. It doesn’t hurt that she fucks like a spriggan on skooma, either.”

 

Gwyneira wanted to cry. 

 

And he laughed again. “You know what? I like you.”

 

“I wish you didn’t.”

 

He chuckled. At her, she suspected. “You’re spunky, I’ll give you that. You got a lot more fight in you.” He sighed and popped his knuckles. “Anyway, you’re right; you’ve more than earned the Rose.” He waved his arm in front of him and a staff topped with a blooming rose shimmered into existence. “Hopefully this time it actually gets used,” he muttered. After she grabbed it, he clapped a hand on her shoulder before wrapping his arm around it. “Imagine it: an endless stream of minions. And all of the prestige of being Sanguine’s chosen.”

 

She mouthed “prestige” when he wasn’t looking.

 

“Ah, listen to me ramble. I suppose I should let you go. You’ve got places to go, people to meet,” he told her, then his grin turned sharp, a gleam to his eye she didn’t like. “You should come by again, if you want to have a good time--”

 

“I’m going to stop you right there because I have my own problems but I have children I need to get back home to. Now,” she huffed, “can you please send me back to Whiterun where I can grab enough mead to make me forget this ever happened?”

 

He rolled his eyes and waved his arm one more time, a purple hole ripping through the otherwise still evening. “Fine, fine. You’re all so dramatic. See you soon,” he called after her as she stepped through it. 

 

“Wait, what?”

  
  
  
  


But she found herself back inside the Bannered Mare, ducking from the shocked glances of the assorted patrons. She turned and walked straight to Hulda.

 

“Hulda, what is the most amount of mead and/or ale you are willing to sell me?”

 

She knew she still had to go to Volunruud, but fuck it, it could wait. She would just head out next week. A few more days wouldn’t kill Nazir and Babette.

 

Probably. 

 

 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the end of the first branch! Only about one or two more chapters left, I think. Then, on to the second branch xD
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone; your interest in this means everything to me. And I'm so sorry to not to have gotten back to some comments; I'm going to reply today, this week was just very busy getting back into work and I recently was just made in charge of designing a new writing program. But, that's unrelated to this xD
> 
> Please forgive any mistakes you see in here, and feel free to point out any you come across; I try my best and I hate catching things _after_ i finish posting, but it really does help me out.


	18. The First Branch, Chapter 17: Not With a Scream, But With a Whimper

In the end, she’d hired a rather dubious shipping service to send the gold to Dawnstar, if she were to be completely honest. Her mind still spun in circles thinking about it. Twenty-thousand septims. Enough to run. Enough to start over. To take Lucia and Sofie and finally-- _ finally _ \--go to High Rock. Her throat closed and her hands tingled when she had peered into the barrel and her magelight fluttered overhead and glinted off of the sparkling coins.

  
  


And like the devil he was, Lucien made a reappearance, his shadow cast over her once again. 

  
  
  


The pair travelled in relative silence, Gwyneira perched atop Shadowmere and Lucien trailing beside them, not quite walking and not quite floating. Gwyneira didn’t have a word for it, but it always sent prickles down her arms and up her neck. Snow crunched under the mare’s hooves as waves lapped at the icy banks of Dawnstar. Gwyneira spotted the shrouded cave that now housed the Dark Brotherhood. The courier must have made it here by now, she thought as she dismounted from Shadowmere, Lucien beside her.

 

She thought of the gold, and her stomach clenched as the now-familiar sting of tears assaulted her eyes and she gave a sniffle, rubbing her face and ignoring Lucien’s scoff.

  
  
  


Outside of the Dawnstar Sanctuary, its black door loomed over Gwyneira’s shivering, pale form and her ghostly companion. It had come to this, a series of events that hurtled her to this point: her mother’s death, her decision to strike out on her own, the Imperial ambush--it had all led her to this moment. She had done it; she had killed Titus Mede II and she had done it alone. 

 

She’d never intended this to happen. 

 

She told herself, on especially frigid evenings, that she had just wanted to help that poor little Aretino boy. Fucking Astrid and the Dark Brotherhood. A chill ran over her shoulder and her head jerked to her side, where the spectre stood, his hand resting on her. His gaze on her was softer than she’d come to expect from him. He looked at her, looked through her.

 

Looked past her.

 

She wondered what he saw as his eyes searched her face. She steeled her jaw and met his stare with her chin jutting out and fists clenched down by her sides. 

 

He nodded, and she thought she saw his lips twitch. Not a smile. Never that. A smirk, a sneer, but never a genuine smile.

 

“You stand now at the precipice of the Void,” he said to the air before his eyes focused back on her. “I am reminded of another Listener, a protege I knew long ago,” he told her. She saw him turn his face away from her, distant--she might even say melancholy had she thought him capable of such sentiment--but she was struck by the realisation that--though a time long-past--he had been a person, a man. 

 

What must it be like to exist as a shade, to watch the world go on without you? 

 

Though she supposed she’d made many persons meet the same fate now. Her heart hammered at her sternum, and she crossed her arms over it. 

 

“So long ago,” he repeated before turning back to her, and his hand touched her face, the shock of it freezing the flesh there. “I did not understand why I could not find her in the Void after so many years. Surely she must have died by now,” he said, and she was unsure if he still spoke to her as his expression twisted. “But she was never meant to be mine,” he lamented. “Though she was still bound to me, as you are.”

 

Her stomach dropped, and she frowned up at him, tilting her head to the side, the bite of the cold breeze crawling along her flesh.

 

“Ours is a bond beyond even the Dark Brotherhood, beyond death,” he informed her. “It is in your blood--our blood--and the path you follow.”

 

“ _ Our _ blood?” she snapped, “what do you mean?” her voice thin and watery even to her own ears, and she cleared her throat. “You’ve been saying all of this cryptic shit to me. I think I deserve to know what you’ve been telling me, so just say what you mean already,” she said. Rivers trickled over her cheeks, and she jerked away from him, wiping them away. 

“I never even knew,” he murmured. “If I had known, I would have--” He shook his head, and she wanted to throttle him. “She and I are separated forever, now. I cannot reach her.”

 

He turned his face away from her as she continued to stare at him, her mouth agape and eyes bright and open. “I have often wondered,” he began, his voice low, “when I am in the Void, if you were meant to be my punishment, to serve you as she served me, to look upon your face when I can never gaze at her again. To wallow in my own regret with only my all-too-brief moments with her to keep in my memory.” She thought she heard his voice bend for a moment, and she flinched. “You do favour her quite a bit,” he brushed his hand over her cheek and she shuddered. “She did that, too,” he murmured, still stroking her cheek. She heard him expel a puff of useless air. “It seems death grants a certain honesty. Go on in,” he told her. “Your new life awaits.”

 

She fixed him with a stare, cold settling in her limbs, a numbness spreading through her and her hair stood on end. She bit her lip, chewing on the skin and copper tinged her tongue before her teeth released it and she stepped away from him. 

 

Gwyneira swallowed several times, her throat bobbing. He frowned at her, stepping away, and her gaze flitted past his shoulder to watch the swirling flakes of snow twisting against each other in the sudden gust of wind. She opened her mouth.

 

“Who are you talking about?” she asked, her whisper dying on the frosted breeze. 

 

He glanced away. “I think you know who.”

 

The chill in her body evaporated and scalding blood rushed through her before she staggered back, the grind of her boots against the ice slicing her ears. She saw something flash across his face, a flicker, and his hand twitched in the corner of her darkened vision, the edges creeping closer to her.

 

Her hand travelled to grab the hair at the top of her head, knocking back the cowl she wore, and pain shot through her, granting her clarity as she felt bile claw its way against her throat. 

 

“By the Eight,” she rasped, backed against the stone of the Sanctuary’s facade and her free hand clutching at the stone, her fingers slipping on its damp surface. “It’s you. You  _ knew _ the Champion of Cyrodiil. You knew Felicienne.” The stone bit into her spine. “She was your Silencer, the one who went on to become the Listener.”

 

He was silent, and she wanted to pull out her hair.

 

“Answer me!” she demanded. 

 

His jaw was set, his transparent form stiff and unyielding, before he crossed his arms. “Yes,” he said. 

 

“You’re Faustus’ father,” she mumbled, and ran her hand along her forehead. “No wonder no one knew. There’s no record. My father searched.” She broke off and stared up at the door next to her. “She never gave your name,” she told him. She wrapped her arms around her torso. “Why? Why wouldn’t she give your name?” she wondered, aloud, and she felt her stomach trying to stuff itself in her throat. She glared at him. “What did you do to her?”

 

He turned from her, his form--despite its intangibility--radiated tension. And she thought, perhaps anger. She swallowed, the muscles in her legs twitching. 

 

“I loved her,” he said at last. “In my way. Perhaps too much. I’ve had quite some time to reflect on this.” He sighed. “My sweet, obedient girl.”

 

Gwyneira stared down at the snow beneath her feet, the frost sticking to her boots and she felt the breeze pick up. “Did--” she started, then cleared her throat, “did she love you?”

 

He stood, motionless, and the cold whipped across her face, blood blooming in her cheeks. After a beat, a breath, he said, “I’ve wondered that many times over the decades, but if I am honest with myself--” He shook his head. “No, I do not think so.”

 

Her shoulders relaxed, her posture slumping against the wall behind her, the tension in her stomach uncoiling by a fraction. 

 

“Perhaps she came to, the capricious thing,” he continued. “But another had usurped me in her affections.”

 

“Good,” she snarled. He twisted around, a sneer on his face, but she held his gaze, his eyes boring into her, before he lowered his eyes. She nodded and repeated, softly, “Good.”

 

“You say that now,” he murmured. Gwyneira watched him, watched the tic in his jaw and the stiffness of his posture and he jerked his head--a violent motion--and raked his fingers through his hair, disturbing the binding at the base of his skull. "It was not who I thought," he mumbled. 

 

A frozen fist gripped her heart at his quiet words.

 

* * *

  
  


“Listener! You’re back,” Babette exclaimed, but stopped short on seeing Gwyneira’s ashen face and red-rimmed eyes. She narrowed her eyes and watching Gwyneira dust the snow off of her shoulders, she leaned against the wall and said, “We did get your shipment. Twenty-thousand. Maybe it’ll even be enough to make this place habitable.” She glanced around at the tattered banners and broken furniture, letting out a small sigh. 

 

“Yeah,” Gwyneira mumbled, slinging her cloak off and draping it over her arm, “maybe.”

 

“So where have you been? I think even Nazir’s been worried,” Babette said, her face smooth and relaxed, and she watched as the younger woman ducked her head and walked past her. Babette turned around, following Gwyneira with her gaze.

 

Gwyneira paused and placed her cloak on the dilapidated table and combed her fingers through her hair. “I had to check on some things.” Then, she let out a chuckle and shook her head. “You probably wouldn’t even believe what else, but--” she clenched her jaw and let out a groan, a brief exhalation, and said, “I’m sorry for not getting here, or getting the gold to you both sooner. I...lost track of time, I guess.”

 

“Well,” Babette said, “you’re here now. There’s quite a bit to be taken care of, you know.”

 

Gwyneira nodded, staring at the table and its lone lantern flickering in the gloom of the entryway. 

 

“As soon as we get things fixed up around here, Nazir said he’s going to start recruiting people again--”

 

“You said something,” Gwyneira interrupted, her face still turned away from Babette, “when I first joined. ‘Why ruin the surprise.’ That’s what you said.”

 

Babette’s brows furrowed before she made a soft ‘oh’ with her mouth and folded her hands in front of her. “You’re talking about your ancestor, of course. It’s quite the fixation for you, isn’t it?”

 

Gwyneira snapped her head towards the other woman, shaking it, and backed into at chair tucked under the table, the sound of the wood grinding against stone bouncing off of the walls and reverberating in the antechamber. Babette watched her shudder. 

 

“She was our Listener for about eight or nine years. Before you ask,” she said as she noted the play of expression flitting over Gwyneira’s face, “I never knew her, personally. But I knew her Speaker from the Cheydinhal Sanctuary. I understand she had a child, at the end of the Oblivion Crisis. Strange, isn’t it?” she asked, a sharp edge to her smile, and Gwyneira’s face turned thunderous.

 

“Cut the shit,” she snapped. Babette raised an eyebrow but remained silent. “You knew. You fucking knew. Gods,” she laughed, both hands tangled in her hair before she rested them in her lap, and she sat atop the table. “No fucking wonder,” she muttered. “No fucking wonder my father’s family--” she cut herself off, wringing her hands.

 

Babette regarded her, head tilted, and she queried, “What? What about them?”

 

Gwyneira opened her mouth, but snapped it shut, and Babette smelled the blood that blossomed in the air. “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all.” Then she slumped forward. “You knew about Lachance, too, didn’t you?”

 

Babette felt a slight pang in her chest, but discarded it. She nodded and watched the girl’s face fall. “Contrary to popular belief, dead men actually can tell tales,” she told her. “And, as I said before, I knew Arquen--that Speaker,” she said. “She had her suspicions. Why does it matter to you?”

 

“It--it doesn’t,” she said, staring at her hands. “It doesn’t.” Her gaze darted back up at Babette, her eyes too bright in the gloom. “I’m going to go on a walk. I’m not--I’m not leaving,” she told her. “I just need--” She stood up and grabbed her cloak again, and strode outside, Babette watching after her.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The bite of the frozen gales soothed her scalded flesh, but she pulled the cloak tighter around her anyway.  She made it maybe a dozen paces from the door when a sharp, “Listener!” pierced her ears. Her stomach lurched and her eyes fell upon Cicero, who glared at her, wielding his dagger.

 

“You have got to be kidding me!” she shouted. “I do not need this.”

 

He advanced on her, stopping only feet away and sparkes gathered at her fingertips. 

 

“You were a fool to spare me! Did you think that I would be grateful?”

 

“Yeah, you know what? I kind of fucking did!”

 

“Cicero should be Listener!” he accused, his dagger still at his side, and she frowned when it stayed there. “Not you,” he snapped, “now you will die!”

 

He didn’t move for several moments, and Gwyneira began to fidget, her fingers going numb from the magicka coursing through her hands, and she tilted her head towards him. Then, he lunged forward and--

 

\--hugged her. 

 

She spluttered, wriggling in his arms, the lightning extinguished and her arms limp at her sides. “I got you!” he giggled, squeezing her. He was, to her irritation, surprisingly strong. “You should have seen the look on your face!” He broke into a peal of laughter, and smothered it in her shoulder. “Oh, Cicero has returned, yes, but not to kill the Listener. Cicero would  _ never  _ harm the Listener. Mother’s sweet, sweet Listener.” 

 

She squirmed.

 

“Cicero has come to serve the Listener, until one of us dies horribly,” he murmured into her shoulder. “Forever and ever.”

 

She raised her arms and patted him on the back, her hands shaking, and she grimaced. “That’s really great, Cicero, but--er--I don’t really do the hugging,” she gasp, continuing the pat him. “And you’re kind of hurting me,” she admitted. 

 

He stepped away from her, smoothing her cloak and robes down, too long, and she swatted his hands away from her, wrapping herself up in the material. 

 

“Allow Cicero the honour of accompanying you,” he requested, though a niggling part of her thought he might follow her anyway. She peered into his feverish eyes, the colour dusted across his face, and she let out a long sigh from the very bottom of her lungs, her body wrung out. 

 

“Yeah, sure,” she conceded. “Why the hell not?” 

 

His grin turned brighter, and moved towards her again but she held up her hand. “Okay, but no more hugging.” His face fell, but was replaced by another grin so swiftly Gwyneira thought she might have imagined it. She frowned. 

 

“Yes, of course Listener. Anything you say.”

 

She squinted at him for a moment and worried the corner of her mouth and groaned. “Look, it’s nothing personal. If that makes you feel better,” she mumbled. “Why don’t--why don’t we get everything settled in the Sanctuary.” She rubbed her temples huffed. “I’ll probably have to explain this.” She shrugged and scratched the back of her head. “Nazir is not going to be happy.”

 

“Oh, sweet Listener, you will not regret your decision to spare poor, unfortunate Cicero. Cicero will be the best companion; Cicero will keep you safe from the  _ filth _ that might harm you.”

 

She backed away, holding her hands up. “I appreciate the enthusiasm,” she began, making her way to the door. She motioned him to follow, but kept a wary eye on him. “You don’t really need to do that though. It’s fine. Let’s just--let’s just get things settled with Nazir and Babette. I have a lot of talking to do.” Gwyneira rolled her eyes and brushed her hair out of her face. “So much for my walk.”

 

Cicero slung his arm around Gwyneira’s shoulder, ignoring her protests and swung her around before falling into step with her as they re-entered the Sanctuary.  

  
  


* * *

 

HERE ENDS THE FIRST BRANCH

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh here it is; the end of the first part of "While Kicking and Biting." Things aren't resolved, not by a long shot, but they will pick up in the next part, which I plan to start publishing in September. I'm hoping to have the whole draft written out by then; I'm already about a third through it, even though it might be a bit longer.
> 
> Truthfully, I'm not all that pleased with this chapter (but, really, when am I ever) but I've gone over it until I've been sick xD
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's stuck with this; it means so much to me and I'm so appreciative of each and every one of you, so from the bottom of my heart thank you all so so much <3


	19. The Second Branch, Chapter One: Seldom Is There a Single Wave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for some clarification: some time has lapsed between the first and second branches. Not a lot, and just because something isn't addressed right away doesn't mean it won't be in later chapters.

“My Listener,” Lucien began--and Gwyneira thought she caught the note of derision that tinged his voice--as he came up to stand beside her, casting his gaze towards Cicero, and muttered, “you understand it is not always necessary to bring him along. Surely he has better things to do, such as tend to the Night Mother’s needs.”

 

Gwyneira rolled her eyes and huffed. “She’s dead, how many needs could she possibly have?”

 

He glared at her, and she flinched away from his eyes. 

 

She coughed before he could say anything else and threw her hands up in the air, “I know that,” she mumbled, ploughing on, and she glanced back at the red-haired man and let out a long breath. “He wants to come along. And I don’t think Nazir particularly cares for him.”

 

She ignored Lucien’s commentary. 

 

“You’re awfully snippy for someone who’s supposed to be like, what, my undead assistant?” she asked, turning her eyes back to him, and smirked. 

 

“I’m not your ‘assistant,’ girl; I serve Sithis in the Void.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. So you’ve said before,” she dismissed, then she glared at the horizon. “But doesn’t that also--sort of--imply that your assisting of me is part of that?”

 

Her gaze darted to him and she clenched her jaw. He shouldn’t even be here, she thought. Every time she looked at him her stomach turned on itself and her neck felt hot and broke out in tingles. And he kept popping in whenever it damn well suited him. She was sure Cicero noticed her discomfort, given his fixation on her whenever the apparition emerged. Though it had been several weeks, she couldn’t bring herself to have Lucien around.

 

And she took every opportunity to let him know. 

 

“You know,” she began, “you complain so much about how I speak to you, it’s a wonder you even stay. No one’s asking you to, you know,” her stiff voice said to him. She kept her irises stuck to the horizon before their little party, a shudder threatening to slither up the side of her spine.

 

When only silence greeted her, she looked back to him only empty space remained, and she shrugged the sensation off and turned back towards Cicero, who was staring at her. She shivered. 

 

“Maybe you could come up here, next to me? In my line of sight.”

 

“Oh certainly, Listener! Humble Cicero lives to serve,” he sang as he jogged up to her.

 

“That’s fine, but you don’t have to ‘serve’ me. It’s weird. And stop calling me Listener; that’s really conspicuous,” she told him. 

 

“Nonsense,” he scoffed. “What else am I to call you, most honoured member of the Dark Brotherhood?”

 

Gwyneira flushed and kicked a rock in front of her and watched as it skittered down the dirt road. “I mean, just Gwyn is fine.”

 

“Pah,” he exclaimed.

 

“Fine, or just Gwyneira. You’re not my...my servant. It’s weird. I don’t like it. Just call me Gwyneira. Please?”

 

He looked at her and nodded his head--carefully, she thought--and hummed under his breath. 

 

She’d rip her own tongue out before she admitted it, but she didn’t mind Cicero’s company. The past few weeks of him keeping her company--and showing up uninvited to her home--had cemented his place in her nearest vicinity. He seemed quite happy to even help around her home, which she wished he’d stop doing.

 

She also wished Lucia and Sofie would stop referring to him as Uncle Cicero and that he would stop bringing them little daggers for practise, but she knew when to pick her battles. Besides, she was a bit proud of how well Lucia was getting with it.

 

Sofie seemed to prefer needlepoint, which suited Gwyneira just fine. 

 

She glanced up to the sky, Magnus had already begun to set and Whiterun was a couple hours away, not that travelling by night was an issue, but it did mean she’d need to look out for Thalmor. 

 

And Stormcloaks. 

 

And Imperials. 

 

Gwyneira groaned under her breath; the situation between all three groups had begun to creep even into Whiterun, and she contemplated her original plan of heading towards High Rock with her two girls as a scream bubbled in her throat that she swallowed down. Imperials and Stormcloaks were at each other’s throats, dragon attacks had been increasing, and she was stuck giving orders to a death cult because she was forced to listen to a corpse and a spirit who nagged at her. A nagging, homicidal, spirit to whom she was related. All while dodging Delphine’s letters. She shook her head and watched as the city walls grew larger and larger, her satchel weighing on her shoulder, and she popped her neck. 

 

And that idiot Vilkas kept coming around her home. 

 

Her cheeks warmed and she glared at the city. If she found out that he’d brought anything by while she was gone, she was going to march over to Jorrvaskr and set him on fire, Companions or no. He’d been especially bothersome lately, ever since that night she’d rather have her tongue ripped out than speak about. 

 

Lydia said she was being unfair at this point.

 

Well, fuck that, she thought. 

 

“Listener,” Cicero’s voice broke the silence, “is everything alright? Do you need me to kill someone?”

 

Gwyneira opened her mouth and inhaled, then furrowed her brow and mumbled a “no, that’s fine,” and continued her march to Whiterun, with Cicero scrambling behind her as her pace increased. 

 

* * *

 

 

After dropping Cicero off at Hulda’s, she opened her door with a sigh and a smile playing on her lips as she stepped in and the thump of the door sounded behind her, looking forward to getting a decent bath and a good night’s sleep, when the sight that greeted her made her stop short.

 

“Get out of my house, Vilkas!” she shrieked, causing even Lydia to jump.

 

He scowled at her, dropping his burden--a sack of produce and some dried meat, she noted--and drew up to his full height. She swallowed but set her jaw and stared up at him. 

 

“I was on my way out, I just wanted to leave this for your daughters,” he said, his arms crossed in front of him, and she ignored the heat the suffused her cheeks. 

 

“I am more than capable of providing for my own household,” she hissed. 

 

Lydia, who had been watching the exchange, began to creep up the stairs when Gwyneira turned her gaze on her.

 

“And you, why do you keep letting him in?” she interrogated. 

 

She saw Lydia wince and her shoulders slump. “My thane--Gwyn--perhaps we should have this talk tomorrow? In the morning?”

 

Gwyneira ground her teeth, but nodded. “Fine. But we will talk.” She looked back at Vilkas. “Now get the hell out of my home.”

 

“You are the single most frustrating woman I’ve ever met,” he snapped. 

 

“No one’s making you stop by. I keep insisting that you don’t. You’re the most stubborn, ice-brained man I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting,” she said, and pointed to the parcel he’d set down. “And take that stuff with you.”

 

She glared and pursed her lips when she saw a smirk crawl over his face. 

 

“No,” he said, and she wanted to punch the smug look off of him.

 

Not that she thought it’d do much. He’d probably not even feel it. 

 

“Take it back! I don’t want it!”

 

“My thane,” Lydia cut in, “maybe you should reconsider; we are running a bit low on food and I’m sure the girls would be happy.”

 

Gwyneira frowned, and focused on the floor, scuffing the toe of her boot and huffed. “Fine,” she muttered after a moment. “But I’m not happy about it.”

 

“Are you ever happy with anything?” Vilkas teased.

 

The smaller woman screamed.

  
  


Lydia had to hold Gwyneira back so Vilkas could escape unscathed that evening, knocking over a chair as he went. 

 

* * *

 

 

Gwyneira scowled into the simmering pot of stew and then Lydia when the other woman stepped up beside her. 

 

“Where are Sofie and Lucia?” she forced out through her teeth. Lydia looked at Gwyneira and sighed. 

 

“They’re playing with Lars and Mila.”

 

Silence bloomed between the two women, with Gwyneira stirring the broth and Lydia offering assistance, Gwyneira snapping that she was fine. Lydia nodded and made her way up the stairs. 

 

Gwyneira glanced up and frowned, her spine relaxing and she let the wooden spoon fall against the rim of the kettle with a clatter that echoed. She wiped her hands on her skirts and brushed the hair out of her face. She grabbed the spoon and covered the pot with its lid and let the stew simmer over the low-burning fire. She sniffed, the wet sound making her wince, and she dragged her arm over her eyes and cheeks. 

 

She jumped at a knock on the door and cursed at herself. 

 

“I’ve got it,” she yelled up the stairs, and heard the creak of Lydia’s footsteps as they receded from the steps. 

 

“By the Eight,” she muttered, “this better not be Vilkas or I’m setting him on fire,” she grumbled. 

 

She flung the door open and stopped short when she saw the local courier, who jumped back and she flashed him a small grin.

 

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “Thought you were someone else.”

 

The courier brushed himself off and reached into his pouch “Don’t worry about,” he said, pulling a wrinkled envelope out from his pack. “I have something for you.”

 

“I figured,” she deadpanned. 

 

He held the note to her and after she took hold of it, he spun around and left, muttering something behind him about other deliveries to make. 

 

She broke the seal, not recognising it and frowned when she saw a familiar looping script and rolled her eyes.

 

_ Dragonborn-- _

 

Gwyneira crumpled the parchment and threw it into the fire. Delphine had no place trying to tangle her up in that business between them and the Thalmor. She’d avoided the Thalmor this much, she wanted to keep that up as long as possible. 

 

Between this and the Dark Brotherhood…

 

Maybe she should just tell Cicero whenever she heard anything from the Night Mother. He’d probably be more than happy to carry out whatever contracts she heard. So far the newer recruits had been doing fine, and Nazir seemed to be in a better mood. Though, she thought that might be more to Cicero following her around instead of staying underfoot at the Sanctuary. 

 

For a moment, she considered sending for him, but she shook her head and let out a little laugh. Both of the girls had taken to him rather...too easily, she thought. But they were sweet girls, and since he usually had a gift for them, so she shouldn’t have been surprised. 

 

She should, however, be concerned with how quickly he seemed comfortable with them. 

 

She made a face and went back to check the pot. She glared at the stew before taking a sip from the ladle. Gwyneira called Lydia down, and asked if she could get the children from outside, that she would set the table for everyone. She saw Lydia open her mouth for a moment, before she nodded and made her way outside. 

 

Gwyneira scooped the liquid into the earthen bowls and laid them out on the table, breathing in the savory aroma of the broth mingling with the ash and woodsmoke in the air, and felt a smile smile twitch at the corner of her lips. She inhaled again and smoothed her hair back. Then her eyes fell on the parcel that Vilkas and left earlier and narrowed her eyes. She stomped over to it and flung her pantry open, shoving the whole package inside. She felt her cheeks pinken and her stomach flipped on itself, fluttering wings beating against the cage of her ribs, and she slammed the doors shut as Lydia and the two girls stepped back inside. 

 

“Is everything alright, my Thane?”

 

Gwyneira rolled her eyes at the shut cabinet. “It’s Gwyn, Lydia. And yes. Everything is fine.”

 

“Lydia said Uncle Vilkas came by,” Lucia chimed in, her voice too bright for Gwyneira’s liking.

 

She raised an eyebrow. “She did, did she?”

 

Lucia nodded when Gwyneira looked back at her and Gwyneira sighed. She rubbed her temples and told the girls to sit down. 

 

As they were eating, Sofie looked up from her bowl and stared at Gwyneira. When Gwyneira raised her eyes, Sofie asked, “Mama? Why do you hate Uncle Vilkas?”

 

Gwyneira muttered something under her breath that sounded like “don’t call him that” but she shook her head. “Because he’s an idiot,” she snapped, but she winced when both Lucia and Sofie flinched. Gwyneira let out a breath through her nose and pursed her lips for a moment, tapping her spoon against the side of her bowl. “I don’t hate him,” she said after a beat. When she saw Lydia smirk, she glowered. “But I’m angry with him,” she mumbled.

 

“How come?” Lucia asked, and Gwyneira paused her tapping and spluttered.

 

“I just am!”

 

“But why, Mama?”

 

Gwyneira dropped her gaze to her soup, watching her distorted reflection and the way it rippled with her breath and her hands fell into her lap where she clutched her skirts, twisting and pulling at the material between her fingers. She could feel her face burning under everyone’s scrutiny. “He laughed at something that wasn’t very nice,” she stated. Her throat closed around itself and she swallowed a couple of times. “It--” she sighed, her cheeks dark red and raw, “it hurt my feelings,” she admitted.

 

Lucia frowned. “Did he apologise?”

 

Gwyneira cleared her throat and mumbled. “It’s...possible he doesn’t really know.”

 

“Or,” Lydia interjected, “he’s been trying to apologise this whole time and you’re too stubborn to admit it.” But she smiled to soften the blow and Gwyneira ducked her head. 

 

“You always take his side,” she whined. 

 

“Well, in the time I’ve known you, my Thane--” Gwyneira opened her mouth, but Lydia continued on, “you can be quite…” Lydia drummed her fingers on the table, lips tugging up at the corners, and she said, “challenging.” Then she laughed. “In fact, I’m almost sure Vilkas is quite afraid of you.”

 

“Didn’t seem to be,” she grumbled.

 

“I think you trying to strangle him might have changed his mind,” Lydia said. 

 

“I didn’t,” she insisted. Even Lucia and Sofie looked at her with some skepticism painted on their small faces. “I didn’t!”

 

“As you say, my Thane.”

 

“Gods damn it, call me Gwyn, Lydia,” she exclaimed, then coughed and looked at her daughters. “Don’t, er, don’t repeat that, alright?”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, she heard the screams before she saw the blackened sky. She jumped out of bed and threw her robes on, haphazard and somewhat undone, and she raced outside. 

 

The shadow of wings fell over Whiterun, and a couple roofs had been set on fire. The guards were already attacking, and Gwyneira looked at her own roof, sighing when it appeared unharmed, for now. 

 

“Mama, what’s going on?” Lucia asked, rubbing her eyes and clad in only her nightgown, clutching the doll Cicero had gotten her. 

 

“Stay inside, Lucia! Sofie,” she barked, “you, too!”

 

“But, Mama--”   
  


“Listen to me!” she snapped. “Stay. Inside.” She panted and glanced behind her, the clashing of steel and the crackle of fire roaring over the city. “Stay inside until I tell you it’s safe to come out.

 

Fuck, she hoped Cicero slipped away during the night to go back to Dawnstar. 

 

She heard Lydia hurry down the stairs, already clad in her armour, and both women ran out. Gwyneira turned to Lydia.

 

“Lydia, stay close to the house. Please.”

 

“My Thane--”

 

“You said you’re supposed to protect me and all that I have, right?” she shrieked. “ _ Then stay close to the house _ .”

 

Lydia regarded her for a moment, but her eyes softened and she nodded. “Of course.”

 

The dragon landed on top of a neighboring house and roared, swinging his tail and knocking over the smokestack, sending debris flying over the street and into several people. Some of who did not get back up.

 

Gwyneira sent a jolt of lighting towards it, hitting it in the face. It took off again, flying too high to be seen, and everyone stood, tense as bowstrings, and she noticed the Companions were there, too. Vilkas jerked when she noticed her staring, and she sent a glare to him but brought her gaze back to the sky. A twinkle appeared in the sky, through the smoke, and moments later a column of fire struck the street, and Gwyneira was knocked off of her feet. 

 

In the chaos, she felt the ground vibrate and saw a shadow loom behind her. She turned to come face to face with snarling teeth. It reared back, mouth agape, and lunged towards her, but she felt a strong arm wrapped around her waist as he was jerked back against a solid metal-clad chest, and she glanced back, her hands resting on Vilkas’ forearm. 

 

She stuttered, her jaw trembling, “T-thanks.”

 

He stared at her for a moment, his own expression open, before he nodded when the dragon leaped up again. When it landed again, the guards pelted it with arrows, and Gwyneira felt rooted to the spot, her chest tight and her eyes burning. Her hands tingled and clutched at her clothing.

 

She couldn’t move until she saw Vilkas sink his sword through the beast’s skull, and she felt the sensation of fire racing through her, blowing her hair back, and she staggered. 

 

His light blue eyes bore into her as the heat rushed around her, whipping strands of hair across her face as it settled in her breast and she saw his brows furrow, wrinkling his forehead, and he mouthed a single word.

 

She shook her head and took several steps back. 

 

Gwyneira's eyes flit over her surroundings, the weight of the nearby townsfolk's attention pressing against her scratchy tunic, and she swallowed the spittle gathered in her mouth before she bolted back inside her home, the door slamming behind her over the sound of her pounding blood.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so very much for putting up with the length of time between updates. I've recently started two new jobs and left another job that I loved very much, but mentally I think I'm in a better place now, and I really want to continue updating this story; I missed it a lot. 
> 
> Everyone's comments/kudos/and general support has meant so much to me; I'm so grateful for every piece of it I've received. Thank you! You're all the best!
> 
> Also, I'm so sorry about the lacklustre first chapter to this portion; I read and reread and reread this, but I had to get it out or I was afraid I'd never update again xD As always, comments are more than welcome, and PLEASE let me know about any mistakes you find. It helps me out a ton.


	20. The Second Branch, Chapter Two: The Hall Ahead Cannot Be Known for Certain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slow build of this branch, so far. This chapter isn't particularly exciting, but I'm still in the process of laying down the groundwork for the main story arc of this branch.  
> Your kudos and comments and support have meant so so much to me; I'm so grateful for every single one of you.

“You certainly took your time in getting here, Dragonborn,” Delphine’s voice permeated Gwyneira’s hazy thoughts after she slid back into the Sleeping Giant Inn. The older woman’s arms were crossed in front of her, a frown on her face and her jaw set--tight--as the fingers of her right hand clenched and unclenched her cloth-clad bicep.

 

Gwyneira scowled back, pushing her hair away from her face. “Look, we both know I don’t even want to be here.”

 

“Then why are you?” Delphine questioned. 

 

“Does it really matter? I’m here, aren’t I? And, since I’m apparently the Dragonborn, you kind of need me, or you wouldn’t keep harassing me through the post,” Gwyneira snapped. She glared at the older woman for a long moment, feeling the grind of her teeth as she clenched her jaw before her shoulders relaxed and she rubbed her arms.  Gwyneira let out a long breath through her pursed lips dropped her hands to tug at her sleeves. “I get it,” she admitted. “I do. The dragons are--” she paused, sucking on the corner of her mouth, before she nodded and looked to the side, “they’re getting out of hand.” She continued to stare at the wall beyond Delphine’s shoulder and slumped forward. “A dragon attacked Whiterun,” she told her, and saw Delphine tilt her head.

 

“I heard,” she affirmed. “You have a home there.”

 

“I do. And two girls.” Gwyneira inhaled, the air stuttering in the throat, and she hugged herself. “They could have been outside, you know?” She pressed the heels of her palms to her eye sockets and ground them against the skin. “They could have been outside,” she repeated. “The dragons--” she stopped and sniffled, and shook her head, “they’re not going away on their own, are they?”

 

She watched Delphine’s face as the woman turned her head from left to right--slowly--twice, and she felt herself sag under her gaze. 

 

“Yeah,” she breathed. “I didn’t think so.” 

 

The room was quiet for several moments, the sound of the patrons above filtering down the stairs into the tiny cellar. Gwyneira’s hair began to stick to the back of her neck and to her temples, and she brushed the strands away, swallowing against the dryness of her voice box. 

 

“Are they alright?” Delphine asked.

 

“Sorry?”

 

“Your daughters,” Delphine clarified. “Are they alright?”

 

Gwyneira nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah. They’re fine. We’re lucky.”

 

“I’m glad.”

 

Gwyneira opened her mouth, the words sticky and thick, “I--thanks,” she coughed. “So,” she continued, clearing her throat, “the Thalmor? Behind the dragons?”

 

Delphine narrowed her eyes, but gave a curt nod. “I suspect so. But I don’t have anything solid.” She leaned back against the table, and Gwyneira followed her, sitting atop the surface and ignoring Delphine’s scoff. 

 

Gwyneira crossed her legs under her and cracked her knuckles. “Well,” she sighed, “what makes you think it’s the Thalmor?”

 

“My gut tells me it can’t be anyone else,” Delphine confessed. “The Empire had captured Ulfric, the war was basically over. Then a dragon comes around?” She shook her head. “It’s just a little too convenient. Too clean. The only ones who benefit from the war are the Thalmor; of course they’d want to keep it going.”

 

“Yeah, fine, I get that,” Gwyneira interrupted, turning towards the older woman. “But...that’s stupid. Not that I think you’re stupid--” she rushed, “but it would be really stupid of the Thalmor.” she insisted, waving her hands in front of her. “What did they do? Go, ‘Oh no! Things aren’t going the way we want; we better learn to summon a big, uncontrollable monster to stop it!’” She huffed. “I mean, if they did do that, then, I don’t know what to say…” she trailed off, flushing under Delphine’s scrutiny.

 

“You’re not wrong,” Delphine said. “It wouldn’t be their wisest decision. Dragons aren’t like daedra; they can’t be bound, to my knowledge. Which is why we need to get to the bottom of this.”

 

Gwyneira nodded, but bit her lip, and exhaled through her nose. After a moment, she asked, “So, what exactly were you planning?”

 

“We need to infiltrate the Thalmor,” Delphine stated. 

 

Gwyneira choked.

 

“I’m sorry, what?”

 

“We need to be able to spy on them. I’ve done the best I can with the resources I have, but now it’s not enough.”

 

“Yeah, fine, I appreciate that,” Gwyneira began, her eyes narrowed at the woman as she shook her head, “but that seems kind of…” she hummed and tapped her chin with her index finger, “insane.”

 

Delphine raised a brow. “And I suppose you have a better idea?”

 

Gwyneira flushed and her gaze skittered to the floor. 

 

“All I’m saying,” Gwyneira tried, “is that the Thalmor aren’t exactly renowned for their tolerance. Or patience.”

 

“I am well aware of that fact, Dragonborn,” Delphine said, her expression shuttered. “No one knows that more than I do. Believe me.” Then, she sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I wouldn’t be telling you this if I thought there were any other options. You’re the Dragonborn, true, but…” she glanced up, away from Gwyneira, “but you’re a civilian. I know that. And I know that what I’m about to ask you is incredibly dangerous. I’ve seen what you can do though, and if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t even consider putting you in this position.”

 

Gwyneira didn’t say anything, and the stillness of the room buzzed around the two women. Then, she sighed and crossed her arms. “So, then,” she muttered, “what, exactly, is it you want me to do?”

 

“As it so happens,” Delphine began, “there’s a party happening at the Embassy near Solitude. Elenwen--the ambassador,” she clarified upon seeing Gwyneira’s frown,  “regularly throws parties where the rich and connected cozy up to the Thalmor. I can get you in.” 

 

Gwyneira let out a whistle. “I’m almost positive you’re going to want someone else for this.”

 

“You’re the only one we’ve got.”

 

“Oh, well, when you put it like that…”

 

“You know what I mean. I’m sure you’re more than capable.”

 

Gwyneira felt she didn’t share Delphine’s confidence.

 

“Besides,” Delphine went on, “you’ll have help.”

 

“I thought you said I was the only one you had.”

 

“His name is Malborn,” Delphine continued. “He’s my contact within the Embassy. Wood elf, plenty of reason to hate the Thalmor. He isn’t up for this kind of high-risk mission, but he can help you get the information we need.”

 

“Yeah,” Gwyneira snapped, “what is this information you need so badly?”

 

Delphine’s lips turned down and she crossed her arms. “I need you to get Elenwen’s secret files.”

 

“Oh, is that all?” Gwyneira asked, rolling her eyes. “Sure, I’ll just waltz in there and ask, then. How the hell am I supposed to get my hands on them?”

 

“Would you let me finish?” Delphine questioned, and Gwyneira saw the muscle in her jaw twitch. She swallowed down her protests and nodded, face burning.

 

“Thank you,” Delphine said, “now, Malborn serves the drinks at Elenwen’s parties, he knows his way around the Embassy. He can lead you to where they keep those papers.”

 

“And how do you know he will?” Gwyneira mumbled, glancing down at her lap and picking at the lint she found on her robes.

 

“Believe me, when the Thalmor killed his entire family, I’m pretty sure any tender feelings he might have had for them disappeared.”

 

“Point.” Gwyneira pursed her lips together. “So,” she huffed, “you want me to break in to the Embassy and smuggle some files out? How keen.”

 

“I wouldn’t ask you if the situation wasn’t desperate.”

 

“Yeah, you’ve said that.”

 

When Delphine opened her mouth again, Gwyneira cut her off. “I didn’t say no. I’ll do it. Fuck.” She looked up to the ceiling. “I’ll do it. I feel like I’ll regret this, though.”

 

“Wonderful,” Delphine said. Gwyneira spied a small curve to Delphine’s lips as she regarded the girl before her. “I’ll send word to Malborn that he’s to meet with you. At the Winking Skeever.”

 

“Fine, fine. I’ll head out when you say so,” Gwyneira grumbled. “I don’t like this, just so you know.”

 

“Noted.” Delphine searched her face and her shoulders sagged. “Look,” she said, “as long as you can play the part of the Thalmor toady, you’ll be fine. Try not to worry so much.”

 

“Sure,” Gwyneira mumbled as she held herself about the waist.

 

* * *

 

A week later found Gwyneira in Solitude and the Winking Skeever, once again, scanning the main room until her eyes lighted on a Bosmer sitting, alone, in a darkened corner. 

 

Right, that wasn’t conspicuous at all, she thought. 

 

After she checked in with the publican, she walked over to him and saw him jerk in his seat. 

 

“You Malborn?” she asked, flopping down into the chair across from.

 

He glared for a moment, his eyes travelling up and down her form, then slumped. “You’re who they sent? Really?”

 

“Tell me about it,” she muttered. “In my defense, I tried to talk Delphine out of it.”

 

She noticed that he did not look amused.

 

“I can’t believe you’re what I have to work with.”

 

“Yeah, I get that, but if you don’t start talking I will set you on fire, I swear to  _ fucking _ \--” she stopped and took in a deep breath and let it out, her shoulders relaxing and she tilted her head to the side, popping her neck, and shook the sensation off. “You do not know the year I’m having alright?” she said to him. “I just want to get this over with, and I’m sure you do, too.

 

He regarded her, then nodded. “Fair. Sorry,” he apologised. “I’m a bit jumpy. I doubt Delphine would have sent you if she didn’t think you could handle yourself.”

 

“Yeah, let’s go with that.”

 

“You aren’t exactly instilling confidence in me.”

 

“I’m not trying to.”

 

He sighed and sat back in his chair. “Here’s the deal: I can smuggle some equipment into the Embassy for you. Don’t try to sneak anything else in; the Thalmor take security seriously.” He glanced down at her robes and frowned. “You, ah, might also want to find something more suitable to wear.

 

She nodded, a pit forming in her stomach and she swallowed, colour dusting her face. She chewed on the inside of her cheek. “The party’s tomorrow, right?”

 

He confirmed, and she said, “Alright, so, I’ll meet you then?”

 

“Meet be back here to drop your things off at two. Don’t be late.”

 

Gwyneira rolled her eyes and mumbled a “yeah” before getting up, the legs of her chair scraping against the wood, and stepping out into the afternoon, the slight breeze rustling her hair. She really doubted the Thalmor had anything to do with the dragons. It  _ would _ be stupid of them. And she wasn’t so keen on getting involved with the Thalmor; they still patrolled Bruma rather frequently, even so many years after the Great War. That was one thing Skyrim and Bruma had in common, besides the snow and Nords. She thought it might have to do with the fact that the Temple of Kynareth had been dedicated to Talos for so many centuries. Going to chapel could, at times, be stressful under the justiciar’s watchful gaze. Her father to this day still grumbled whenever he saw them in the streets. 

 

So, no, she didn’t want much to do with the Thalmor, let alone go to one of their ambassador’s elbow-rubbing conventions. 

 

She scowled down the street and her eyes caught the sign for “Radiant Raiment” and she groaned, smoothing her hands over her own clothing, and she patted her coin purse. She hated the idea of spending coin on a dress she’d only ever wear once, and she didn’t care for the way the proprietors had looked at her when she passed them on the street during her first trip to Solitude. 

 

With a groan, she pushed the door open to the shop and tugged at her sleeves. One of the women looked up from behind the counter and frowned. 

 

“Oh dear, what on Nirn are you wearing?”

 

Gwyneira fought the urge to snap. 

 

“They’re comfortable,” she muttered.

 

“They’re dreadful. And dirty.”

 

“It’s been a long day,” Gwyneira said. “Listen, I have some fancy party to go to and I need a dress. Can you help me or not?”

 

“Not with that attitude,” the shopkeep stated, a frown on her sculpted face as she narrowed her eyes.

 

Gwyneira clenched her jaw and mumbled an apology. The other woman glared for another beat, the nodded and motioned for Gwyneira to step closer. 

 

“You’re a little rough around the edges, but I think I may have something that could suit you. She hummed and she turned and rummaged through a chest and pulled out a...gown? Dress? Robe? Gwyneira wasn’t sure but winced at the green silk and gold trim, sure that it would be heavy. How the hell was she supposed to sneak around the Thalmor Embassy in that thing?

 

However, she knew beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

 

“It’s lovely,” she lied. 

 

“The green will bring out your eyes; go ahead and try it on,” the Altmer told her. “Let’s see how it fits.”

 

Gwyneira took the garment and stepped behind the divider that the shopkeep was pointing to, and unbuckled the belt of her robes and slipped the cotton and wool off. Struggling to get into the dress, she huffed as she finally poked her head out of the neckline and glanced down at herself.

 

She thought she looked rather ridiculous.

 

And the lining was itchy. 

 

Gwyneira sighed and stepped out, and the proprietor grinned and fussed over the gown, draping a fur stole over it. 

 

“I have great taste,” the elf said, though Gwyneira had her own opinions about that.

 

“Yeah, whatever,” she said. “I’ll take it, alright?”

 

“Wonderful!” the other woman exclaimed. “That will be ninety-five gold.”

 

“Ninety-five gold!” Gwyneira exclaimed. At the Altmer’s sour look, she ducked and grumbled as she dug through her robes for her coin purse and fished out the appropriate amount and dropped the septims on the counter with a clang. 

 

After she changed back into her clothing, she went back to the inn to lock herself in her room to mope about paying such an extraordinary sum for something she’d never wear again in peace.

  
  
  


* * *

 

Two o’clock the next day rolled around faster than Gwyneira had planned, but at least Malborn the Grumpy Bosmer would be downstairs, even though she was running just a tad late. 

 

Grabbing her dagger, she raced down the stairs, wearing the dreaded green dress, and met him at the same table they had sat at the day before. He glanced up at her and she thought he did not look impressed. He sighed and gave her a baleful stare. 

 

She flushed and sat down across from him.

 

“Finally,” he mumbled. “Do you have everything you need?”

 

Gwyneira pushed the dagger over to him, and he regarded it for a moment before slipping it underneath his vest and nodded to her. 

 

“You better go meet Delphine. She’s just outside the city waiting for you.”

 

Gwyneira rolled her eyes but did as he said, hugging the fur around her tight and she trudged out of the city gates and made her way to the stable, grumbling to herself and kicking the loose pebbles on the path in front of her, watching it skitter down the hill before she found Delphine by the stables. 

 

Delphine’s eyes widened and looked Gwyneira up and down. “Well,” she began, “I see you’ve already taken care of your own clothing. I suppose you won’t have any need for these,” she said, gesturing towards a parcel on the floor of the carriage.

 

Gwyneira glared. “I’m not a complete idiot,” she mumbled. “I do know how to dress for some fancy shindig, you know? I’m not a barbarian.”

 

“I never said you were,” Delphine told her, and Gwyneira gave a muttered, “it was implied,” before Delphine cleared her throat. 

 

“Look,” she started, “this is a very delicate operation--”

 

“Yeah, and I still think it’s a bad idea.”

 

“--and you need to be extremely careful not to give yourself away,” Delphine ploughed on, and furrowed her brow as she took in Gwyneira’s appearance. “You look the part,” she said, “but perhaps you should keep your talking to a minimum.” Then she shook her head when Gwyneira opened her mouth to reply. “Anyway,” she interrupted, “did everything go smoothly with Malborn? It’s important we have his complete cooperation.”

 

Gwyneira rolled her eyes and nodde. “Everything went fine. It’s not like I can’t talk to people,” she mumbled. 

 

Delphine remained silent, fixing her with a stare. 

 

“Be that as it may,” she continued, “I think it’s still best to exercise extreme caution.”

 

“Oh, well if that’s the case, I won’t go in there and say ‘I’m working for the Blades, ask me how!’” 

 

Delphine crossed her arms and let out a huff, her eyes narrowing, and Gwyneira ducked her head. “This isn’t a joke,” Delphine said.

 

“I know, I know,” Gwyneira stumbled. “I’m just...stressed. Sorry.”

 

Delphine’s expression softened and she dropped her arms, her back relaxing as she nodded. After a moment, she walked over the Gwyneira and clapped her on the shoulder. “You’re going to be fine. Just be careful; you don’t want the Thalmor after you.”

 

“I kind of can’t think of anything I want less.”

 

 


	21. The Second Branch, Chapter Three: The Careful Guest Spies What's Out Ahead

The ride to the embassy hadn’t been terribly long, as Gwyneira had feared, but even a few hours had left her aching and stiff. Though, she thought, that probably had more to do with the tension in her back and shoulders rather than the wooden carriage in which she sat. She wrung her hands together as the driver told her they were just outside the courtyard of the embassy, and Gwyneira swallowed the spit that had gathered in her mouth. 

 

She stepped out and heard a man arguing with someone as he stumbled and slurred his words, and she rolled her eyes when she realised he was drunk. 

 

She approached the two squabbling, a Redguard and someone who looked like one of the Thalmor, and she glanced at the drunken man. 

 

“Isn’t it a bit early to get started on drink? You haven’t even gotten in, yet,” she said to him, and he gave her a sloppy grin.

 

“Ah, I see I’m not the only one that’s late,” he enthused. “I’m really just here for the liquor, friend.”

 

“I can see that,” she said, glancing up at the Thalmor and shrugging at him. 

 

“Yes, Razelan,” the elf said, ignoring Gwyneira, “if you make a nuisance of yourself again, you will be thrown out and you can say goodbye to Ambassador Elenwen’s drink.” He held out his hand, waiting for something.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” the man--Razelan--muttered as he handed the other man his invitation. 

 

When the elf seemed satisfied, he gestured for the gates to open and Razelan staggered inside.

 

Gwyneira was about to slip in herself when she felt a firm tug on her arm. 

 

“Not so fast; I still need to see your invitation,” the guard said. “We cannot just have anyone sneaking in here.”

 

Gwyneira let out a laugh, wincing as it grated against her own ears and breathed out, “Of course! Silly me,” as she dug through her pockets. “I know it’s here somewhere,” she mumbled, her eyes flickering up to the man and then looked back down when he narrowed his eyes at her. She almost cried when her fingers brushed against the fine parchment. “Ta-dah!” she exclaimed, holding the sealed note out to him.

 

He grabbed it from her and opened it, his eyes scanning each line, before he nodded and waved at the gate. 

 

“Very well,” he sighed. “Everything appears to be in order. Go on in.” He stepped aside to let her pass, and as she made her way through the gate, he called out to her, “Just remember: the Thalmor  _ are _ watching.”

 

She nodded, teeth clattering against each other, and hurried inside.

  
  


The interior of the estate was--blessedly--warm, and she rubbed her palms together to dispel the cold that still clung to them, despite the gloves she had worn the entirety of the day. As the heat began to soak back into her skin, a tall, regal elven woman made her way to Gwyneira. Gwyneira stood up straighter and swallowed, hard, around the lump in her throat. 

 

The other woman inclined her head towards Gwyneira. “Welcome, I don’t believe we’ve met,” she began, eyes travelling over Gwyneira’s features, and she gave a small frown before she spoke again. “That’s unusual, seeing as how I know just about anyone who’s worth knowing in this--” she shook her head “in Skyrim. But in any case, I’m Elenwen, the Thalmor Ambassador to Skyrim. And you are--?”

 

“Ah, right,” Gwyneira stammered and wiped her hands on the sides of her dress before she peeled the gloves off. “I’m Gwyneira. S--ah--Thibault. Gwyneira Thibault,” she rushed, bowing at the waist, shallow, before grinning up at the elf. 

 

Elenwen’s forehead creased for a moment before her features relaxed and she gave a somewhat warmer smile. “Thibault? I didn’t see that name on the list,” she mused, rubbing her chin. “So you’re a Breton, then?”

“How funny,” Gwyneira laughed, sharp and high, and she winced. “I don’t use my family name much,” she admitted, “so perhaps they omitted it by accident? But I am. A Breton,” she rushed, “from Cyrodiil.”

 

“Well, I must say it’s a pleasure to meet you. Skyrim needs more of your sort here instead of…” she trailed off, looking to the side with a raised brow.

 

“Instead of the backward, superstitious locals that seem so prevalent?” Gwyneira finished, rolling her eyes and giving Elenwen a half-shrug.

 

She laughed and nodded. “Indeed. Am I right to assume that you’ve been able to witness Nord hospitality for yourself?”

 

“You’d assume right.”

 

They shared a chuckle and Elenwen fixed Gwyneira with another look. “Yes, it’s unfortunate our presence here is necessary,” she started, “but you’ve see yourself how unreasonable these people can be,” Elenwen sighed. “Thankfully, those here today are a few of the ones who are both reasonable and pragmatic. An empire and Dominion working together by far benefits us all. Stormcloak would have you believe otherwise.”

 

Gwyneira nodded, and she felt her cheeks beginning to ache around her smile. 

 

“So,” Elenwen mused, “what brings you to...Skyrim, of all places?”

 

Gwyneira opened her mouth to respond, when she saw Malborn out of the corner of her eye.

 

“Madame Ambassador,” he cut in, running up to the two women.

 

Elenwen let out a huff and whipped around. “What is it?”

 

“I apologise for the interruption; we’ve run out of Alto wine. Do I have your permission to uncork the Arenthia--”

 

Elenwen waved her hand. “Yes, yes. I’ve told you before not to bother me with such trifles.” She glared down at the Bosmer, then cast a glance at Gwyneira and shook her head. “Apologies,” she said, then her eye caught on something--or someone--and her gaze lit up. “Excuse me, I must be off, but it was so good to meet you, Ms. Thibault. I hope this is the beginning of a long and mutually beneficial relationship.”

 

Gwyneira gave another small bow. “Yes! Likewise!”

 

After Elenwen rushed off, Gwyneira simpered at Malborn. “See? I can be charming.”

 

He raised his brows and gave a small shake of his head. “I suppose stranger things have happened,” he mumbled. “So what can I get for you?” he boomed, causing Gwyneira to jump. He walked over back behind the counter and waved her over. “We have the Arenthia red, Black-Briar Reserve, and a special shipment of Cyrodilic Brandy, if you like.” Then, his voice dropped back down to a whisper. “I am glad to see you made it in,” he confessed. “Once you distract the guards, I can get you through that door,” he told her, jerking his head to a nondescript door off to the side. 

 

She nodded. “Sure, I can do that.”

 

“I’ll be waiting for you by the door. Just make sure everyone is nice and...unaware,” he whispered, then the volume of his voice rose, “sure thing! Let me make sure we have another bottle of that, friend,” before he turned to leave from behind the counter. 

 

Gwyneira bit her lip and and looked around at the other party-goers before making her way out to the main room. There were a few people she recognised, though not well. A tall, blond man, a dark-haired woman with a severe expression on her face, an older woman who didn’t seem as if she were all quite there, and a few others who were milling about with drink in hand and colour in their cheeks. 

 

The man was leering at some poor serving girl and Gwyneira found herself sneering. She rubbed her hand over her face and made a beeline for him. 

 

She could definitely create a distraction.

 

He spotted her and flashed her a grin. Perhaps she had been too eager to make her way to him. She felt a sigh building in her chest and stuffed it back down. 

 

“Elenwen always throws a great party,” he said to her as she reached him. “I never miss one if I can help it.”

 

“It  _ is _ rather lovely,” she said, eyes still scanning the crowd, “what brings you to this one?” she asked.

 

“Hah!” he clapped her on the shoulder. “You must be new to Skyrim, otherwise you’d already know who I am.” He puffed up and Gwyneira felt a wave of exhaustion roll over her. “I have a stake in most anything of importance in Solitude. It’s time to put aside the grievances of the past, and let peace and prosperity flourish between the Empire and the Dominion.”

 

“You must be one of the more pragmatic and reasonable locals Elenwen was speaking of,” Gwyneira said. 

 

“I must be indeed. High praise coming from the ambassador.” Then he let out a guffaw. “I do try to do my own little part. Besides, between you and me, it’s making me pots of money.”

 

“That’s always nice,” she agreed. She noticed his gaze flicker back to the servant and she nodded. “I see you’re eyeing that cute elf over there,” she remarked, tilting her head.

 

“Hey, back off,” he teased, “I saw her first.”

 

Gwyneira held up her hands and laughed. “Don’t worry about me; she’s all yours.”

 

He chuckled along with her and shook his head. “Ah, but she was a bit cold when I was talking to her earlier.” Then, he elbowed Gwyneira and she winced. “Maybe just playing hard to get, eh?”

 

She shrugged. “Well, you never know.” She perked up then. “Say, I could go talk to her for you, maybe put in a good word.”

 

“Oh yeah?” he asked, rubbing his chin. “Now, that’d be a favour I wouldn’t soon forget. You know what? Go on. See what she says.” He sighed. “Ah, now you’ve gone and gotten my hopes up again,” he said, sharing a wink with her. 

 

Gwyneira just hummed. “I’ll do my best not to disappoint you.” 

 

But he was no longer paying attention to her, and she slipped away to the poor girl, who was looking rather worse for wear. 

 

“Need hand?” she asked, but the girl took a step back, shaking her head.

 

“Oh, no, you’re very kind,” she rushed, “but Madame Ambassador would kill me if she caught a guest helping.”

 

Gwyneira didn’t think she was exaggerating. 

 

“You’re terribly busy though--”

 

“Don’t worry yourself over me,” she insisted. “I’m used to it,” she said, a small smile on her face. 

 

She is pretty, Gwyneira thought, and felt a tiny pang upon looking at her. 

 

“Say, I noticed you talking to that man over there….”   
  


Her face wrinkled and she let out a quiet huff. “You mean Erikur? He’s the worst. I hate working these parties,” she told her. “Most of the guests are nice, but then you get a few like him and it makes me want to rip my hair out.”

 

Gwyneira nodded. “Yeah, I can see him having that effect on people,” she admitted, glancing back over at his hopeful face. Turning back to the other woman, she asked, “Do you want me to tell him to leave you alone?”

 

The other girl’s eyes lit up. “Could you? That would be great. I just want him to stop propositioning me.”

 

“Hmm, I don’t blame you,” she mumbled. “Sure, I’ll get him to back off.”

 

Her stomach knotting around itself, Gwyneira nodded to the girl a last time and she walked back towards Erikur, fighting back the sneer that wanted to paint itself on her features. She attempted to fix her face into some semblance of contrition and shrugged. Now standing within earshot of him, she told him, “Sorry, I did my best.” She let out a small laugh. “I suppose she’s not very interested.” 

 

She flinched when she saw his expression morph into a scowl. “What was that?” he asked. 

 

Gwyneira stammered before clearing her throat. “Er, she said she’d like you to leave her alone?” She shook her head. “Please?” she tried, wondering if her plan was as clear-cut as she’d hoped it would be. 

 

She yelped as he pushed her aside, catching herself before she tripped over her feet. “That little tease!” he snapped, and he advanced on the servant. Gwyneira watched her face go ashen while she clutched the now-empty drink tray to her chest. “How dare you lead me on then turn cold at the last minute,” he snapped at her. 

 

Gwyneira was aware of the eyes that were beginning to flutter over to the little scene in front of her. Her own gaze flickered to Maborn, who seemed to be peering at the events through the opening of the bar. 

 

“Please, sir, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression,” the girl said, “I meant no disrespect--”

 

“Don’t worry; I’ll let you make it up to me in private,” Erikur said, and Gwyneira saw him reach out to rub the poor elf’s arm. 

 

“I said no; I’m not going anywhere with you!” she exclaimed, and she ripped her arm away from him. Gwyneira felt sweat begin to bead around her brow. 

 

“Don’t you walk away from me, you slut!” he snarled, and Gwyneira took a step towards the pair. 

“Please, sir, leave me alone…”

 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Elenwen coming up to them and caught Malborn give her a small wave and a tilt of his head. She went to shake her own when she stopped herself, Elenwen now in the middle of the scene.

 

“What is going on here?” she demanded.

 

Gwyneira opened her mouth, but Erikur beat her to it.

 

“This serving girl has been throwing herself at me in the most disgusting manner,” he accused. Gwyneira watched his target’s face grow ashen, her bronzed skin a waxy grey, as she shook her head back and forth. Elenwen’s brows drew up and she pursed her lips in a harsh line.

 

“Really?” she drawled. “And you with such delicate sensibilities,” she mused, “it must have been quite the ordeal for you.”

 

“I demand you remove her from my presence at once.”

 

“I didn’t do anything!” the servant insisted. 

 

Malborn jerked his hand, scowling at Gwyneira across the room, and with a pit in her stomach, she slunk away before hearing the fate of the poor girl. 

 

She dragged herself to Malborn, casting a glance behind her. 

 

“Well, you got that out of the way,” he whispered. 

 

Gwyneira swallowed. “Will she be alright?”

 

He stayed silent and failed to meet her eyes. 

 

“Right,” she muttered. “That’s what I thought.”

 

“Come on, I’ll take you to your things,” he said. Then, looking up at her, he added, “Try not to draw too much attention to yourself.”

 

“I’ll do my best,” she deadpanned. 

 

He led her through the side door and into the kitchen. 

 

“Malborn, I don’t like strange smells in my kitchen,” a Khajiiti woman snapped, turning around to glare at both of them. 

 

“I’m awfully sorry,” Gwyneira mumbled.

 

“The poor wretch has had too much to drink,” Malborn said. “Needs to lie down.”

 

“It is against the Lady’s rules.”

 

“Oh, well I didn’t know that consuming moon sugar was allowed under her roof.”

 

The woman scoffed and turned around, tending to the pot before her. “Fine, you’ve made your point. Go away.”

 

“With pleasure.”

 

Gwyneira ducked her head as Malborn lead her past the cook and into a small room. The larder, she thought. 

 

He turned around to look at her, arms crossed. “Your things are in the trunk,” he said, jerking his head to a corner of the pantry. He spun on his heel, but before he left, he muttered, “Don’t get caught, alright? Take care of yourself.”

 

She swallowed and nodded. “Yeah, thanks,” she murmured. “You, too.”

 

….

  
  


Gwyneira held back a gasp and pressed herself against the wall behind the door as she heard the clunk of elven boots and the chatter of the Thalmor guards patrolling the hallway she was trying to get through. Her chest burned with the air trapped inside her lungs and she pressed her palms against her mouth, grateful that they were making a bit too much noise to hear the hammering of her heart. 

 

“Did you see those robes march in this morning?” the first one asked, and she strained to listen to their conversation. “Who're they with? More of the Emissary's treaty enforcers?”   
  


She heard the tell-tale clank of metal clinking against itself as the second guard shook his head. “No. They're high mages, just in from Alinor. I guess Herself is finally getting worried about all the dragon attacks.”   
  


“Ah, good. I've been wondering how we were supposed to defend this place from a

dragon.” Gwyneira’s eyes widened before her expression twisted. She supposed they weren’t really on as friendly terms with the dragons as Delphine thought.

 

She’d tell the woman that she told her so later. 

 

If she made it out of the embassy without being electrocuted.

  
“If a dragon does show up,” the second one chimed in again, “maybe we'll get lucky and it will eat the mages first. Might give us enough time to kill it.”

  
Gwyneira snorted just as his companion let out a bark of laughter and she cringed. “I'd like to see those arrogant bastards taken down a notch. Always looking down their noses at us lowly footsloggers.”

 

She listened as the sounds of their mirth trailed off into the background, their footfalls growing dimmer and dimmer before she finally took a deep breath again, the world coming back into focus and her face flooding with heat. Tension drained from her body, leaving her knees shaky and she buried her face in her hands, exhaling through chattering teeth. 

 

That had been way too close. 

 

But, she thought, at least there was something new to tell Delphine. 

 

She crept along the hallway, wincing every time a floorboard creaked under the weight of her steps and at last, she reached what appeared to be a dungeon of sorts. Mould and stale air assaulted her sinuses, and she fought down the urge to cough over the stench. Voices floated down the corridor as she grew closer and closer to the main chamber of the quarters. There was something off, in this place, something that caused her gut to clench and burned her lungs. For a moment, she considered whether the high level of magicka in the embassy might be the root of the issue, though perhaps, she thought, it was merely her nerves.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Each step she took thundered against her eardrums as she found herself now in what she could only assume was the interrogation chamber, only the sound of two voices--one clipped and one pleading--just made themselves known over the cacophony. Someone whinging about payment and a cool deferment, a threat she couldn’t make out, then someone skulking off--whoever’d been whining, she figured--before the silence clogged her ears and she felt herself take in a too-loud gulp of air. 

 

The quiet continued to ring.

 

She felt the pressure in her chest loosen, her hands clammy inside her gloves, and she swallowed the bit of saliva that had gathered in her mouth as she continued to creep along the edges of the room. A chest sat in a shrouded corner, tucked away in the dim light of the office, and she approached the container, fiddling with the lock until she heard it click and give way and the lid popped open under her palms. 

 

Three thick leather files laid at the very top of the other documents stored within, and she hoisted them out of their resting place and sat back on her heels, cradling them in her lap as she read over the names on the front. 

 

One for Delphine, not really a surprise, she thought, a huff escaping her nose as she moved it to the bottom of the pile. She’d look it over later.

 

One for someone named Esbern, and she cracked that one open, her eyes darting over the scrawled text until her gaze lighted on one particular section: 

 

_ “Operational Notes: As we are still in the dark as to the cause and meaning of the return of the dragons, I have made capturing Esbern our top priority, as he is known to be one of the experts in the dragonlore of the Blades. Regrettably, we have yet to match their expertise on the subject of dragons, which was derived from their Akaviri origins and is still far superior to our own (which remains largely theoretical).” _ __   
  


Gwyneira frowned. So, the Thalmor really didn’t know anything about the dragons.

 

At all.

 

Their knowledge was largely  _ theoretical _ . 

 

She stifled a snort and glanced at the cover of the last packet, her lips turning down when she saw the name embossed on it.

 

_ Ulfric Stormcloak _ .

 

_ That _ was interesting.

 

She paused a moment, then shoved all three binders into her pack. 

 

A groan broke her concentration and she drew in a stuttered breath, her gaze turning towards the direction from where she heard the sound and she bit her lip, patting the leather satchel. She stood and crept further into the room, but she heard nothing else. She did, however, spot a small group of cells in a corner, and she thought she spied a hunched figure in one. 

 

Not spotting anyone else in the room, she made her way to the figure, and started upon seeing the servant from earlier in the holding cell next to the first person. The elven woman’s eyes went wide and she scrambled back, drawing the attention of her neighbor, who lifted his head, his eyes bleary and blood-shot. 

 

“I told you everything I know. I don’t know what else to say,” he muttered. He frowned and turned his face to spit a wad of blood out at the floor.

 

Gwyneira wrinkled her nose and brought her attention back to the woman--Brelas--who looked as though she might keel over at any moment. 

 

“I’m not here for information,” Gwyneira mumbled. “I mean, not really.” She ran her fingers over her bag, the cool leather soaking into her bare fingers, and she shook her head. “Come on,” she whispered, fiddling with the cuffs around the man’s wrists, “we don’t have a lot of time, I don’t think, and I’m going to get both of you out of here." 

 

* * *

  
  


The scene played itself over and over in her mind as she stood outside the ice cave under the embassy, the wind biting into her and numbing her fingers and stinging her cheeks, her nose pricking, and her throat tight. The man--Etienne, she’d learned--stared at her, his brows knitted and she felt him clasp her shoulder. He had told them that he’d seen the Thalmor dispose of the bodies through the trap door. 

 

She’d expected it to smell worse. At least now she knew why it hadn’t. 

 

The two elves hadn’t stood a chance, and the damp thud of Malborn’s--and she still hadn't figured out how his cover had gotten blown, hadn't planned on needing to take him along with them and how was she supposed to shepherd three people out of this death trap--head against the frosted rock wall still echoed in her skull along with the crack of Brelas’ spine under the grasp of the frost troll that had lived within, and her rooted feet refused to move from their place and she choked on the frozen air as she took in the sight of crimson streaks along the hoarfrost on the ground.

 

Almost like rubies, or that curious stone Astrid had had in her room those months ago. 

 

She had started at the other Breton’s shout and stood still watching the troll rear up, kicking gravel and dust behind it and slamming its fists down on the ground two or three times, before it charged at her. Then nothing. 

 

And when her gaze refocused on the creature before her, she saw the hilt of a dagger sticking out from the its temple, and she felt along the side of her waist for her sheathe, only for her fingers to meet empty space, and she jerked her head toward Etienne who scowled at her. 

 

“What was that about?” he snapped. 

 

Her mouth opened and closed a few times before she swallowed and shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she coughed. “I don’t know what happened,” she mumbled, glancing at what was left of the two elves. 

 

He appeared to want to argue, but gave her a small nod and retrieved her blade from the creature’s skull. He wiped it off on his roughspun pants and she accepted it back, sliding it into its place at her hip. “I didn’t even feel you take it,” she admitted after some time, breaking the heavy quiet between them. 

 

She heard him chuckle. “That’s good,” he said, “I was afraid I’d get rusty being in that cage for so long.”

 

Gwyneira let out a huff. “Wouldn’t want that, now would we?” she muttered. 

 

He didn’t reply, but she thought she felt eyes on her. Her attention moved back to him and she saw him drop his gaze and speed his movement up. “I...I am very sorry for your friends,” he told her. 

 

She frowned before exhaling a soft “oh” and shrugged. “They weren’t really my friends,” she said under her breath. “I didn’t even really know them.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for bearing with me while my life got out of whack for a few months. I'm going to go back and re-edit this chapter, and please if you see anything I missed, let me know. It really helps and I appreciate the time you took to give me a heads up. Chapter Four will be out either tomorrow or Monday; three months was a way too long wait when I was originally planning on having this portion done by March
> 
> Again, thank you all for your kudos and comments, and I'm so sorry that this chapter is fairly lacklustre. I'm really disappointed in myself, but I wanted to get this out there so I could move forward with the story.


	22. The Second Branch, Chapter Four: In His Pinions, Corpses, He Carries

The embers burned low in the cozy living room of Breezehome, and Gwyneira sat in front of the cooking spit, gazing into the glowing coals. Her knees were drawn under her chin as she listened to the sound of the smoldering wood pop and crackle, the heat stinging her eyes until she blinked it away. She felt her side prickle with cold, and she glanced up to where Lucien materialised next to her. He frowned down at her, and she shook her head.

“I’ll head to Dawnstar in a bit, alright? I just--” she paused, lowering her knees and sitting back in her chair, “it’s been a long week and I still have to go to Riverwood.”

She swore he would have sighed if he could, and she scowled.

“What?” she snapped.

“You’re too sensitive,” he told her.

She let out a bark of laughter before clearing her throat. “Not exactly something I think I’d normally be accused of,” she said.

“Does not make it untrue.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

He said nothing for a moment and moved across from her, his translucent figure shimmering in the heat that emanated from the cooking pit. “Is this about those elves?” he queried.

Her eyes snapped up before she jerked her face away. “What would you know?” she questioned.

“Ah,” he breathed. “So it is.”

She remained silent, her jaw clenched, and she crossed her arms. “I don’t want to talk  
about it.”

“You must be over this by now, yes? Death is no stranger to you.”

Gwyneira scoffed. “Right,” she said, “it would be like that for you, wouldn’t it?” she bit out. “Tell me,” she began, “have you ever known what it was like to be a person? Or have you always been like this?”

“It is a bit hypocritical of you, wouldn’t you say, to be so affected by these deaths, when you have been the cause of so many others’?” he accused her.

“What the hell would you know?” she snapped, glaring into the fire, and keeping her eyes away from him.

“I know that you are too sensitive; what makes this situation so different than, say, that Shatter-shield girl you killed last year? Or Gaius Maro?”

“Shut up!”

“You are being infantile, girl,” he told her. “You whinge and sulk, though you are the Listener--”

“Why don’t you take that up with the Night Mother then,” she spat, her teeth bared and a flush staining her cheeks. “It isn’t exactly like I asked for that, now is it?” she mumbled.

She ducked her head under the weight of Lucien’s eyes and tugged at her clothing.

“They weren’t supposed to die,” she said, after a moment.

“So, you do play the judge to determine who lives and who dies, then?”

“Of course not,” she argued, “just--” she bit her lip before she let out a sigh, “it was an accident.”

He hummed and she felt the skin at the back of her neck prickle.

“If you do not deem it time, then?”

“Stop putting words in my mouth; you know that’s not it!”

“Then what is it?” he queried, his expression bland, and he steepled his fingers in front of his face, and she slumped against the wooden chair. She was quiet for some time, only the sound of the crackling coals were there to echo in their ears. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “You are quite like her, in some ways.”

“Shut up,” she snapped.

“Do you not want to know the ‘truth’ as you call it? Does it make you uncomfortable, to know that you are not so far removed from us?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“How incredibly frustrating for you, my dear, to have run so far from home to get away from your family, only to find yourself in your current circumstance,” he mused, smirking when she shot up out of her seat, her shoulders heaving and eyes bright in the dim room. “Calm down,” he said, waving a hand in front of him. “You think yourself secretive, your motivations hidden from everyone. I’m with you nearly all of the time.” Then, he frowned and peered off to the side. “In fact, I daresay the only one who might be more attuned to you might be our Cicero--” he let out a tsk and shook his head, “but that’s an issue for another time.”

Her brows furrowed and she scratched the back of her neck and she sank back down into her chair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she repeated. When he didn’t appear inclined to say anything further, she shifted in her seat, feeling the wood dig into her hips and thighs, and her robes cling to her waist and under her arms. She wriggled for a moment before letting out a small cough. “What--er--what was she like?” At his sharp look, she flushed and cleared her throat. “You said I’m a lot like her--”

“I said you were like her in some ways,” he corrected.

“Whatever,” she dismissed. “You said I was like her. What was she like?”

A sigh escaped him--a long, low exhalation that left his incorporeal body and took the rigidness of his posture with it. She thought she might not get an answer out of him and chewed on her lower lip, and she almost repeated her question, when she heard him murmur something. Shaking her head, she asked, “What was that?”

He looked back at her, a strange smile playing across his features. “She was just a girl.

 

* * *

 

  
“I heard what happened,” Delphine said.

Gwyneira blinked at looked at the woman, nodding her head, and dropped her satchel on the floor by the doorway.

“I have the rest of your things here, as promised,” Delphine continued.

“Yeah,” she mumbled. “Sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”

Delphine frowned and raised her hand before letting it fall back down by her side. “It’s fine; don’t worry too much about that, now.” Then, she released a sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose. “What did you find?”

Gwyneira shook her head and crouched next to her back, rifling through its contents before withdrawing the two dossiers she’d recovered from the embassy.

“This one looks like it’s about Ulfric,” she mumbled, stuffing it back into her pack, “but this one looked interesting.” She let her lips twitch at the corners. “It doesn’t really look like the Thalmor know anything about the dragons, either. But they do seem pretty interested in finding this ‘Esbern.’ You know him?”

Delphine’s brows shot up. “Esbern? He’s alive?”

Gwyneira nodded, “Apparently. Not that that means anything to me, but why would the Thalmor be interested in him?”

“He was a Blade, like me,” she said. She shook her head and ran her hand over her forehead and back through her hair. “Divines, it’s been forever. I thought for sure the Thalmor had gotten him.” She let out a chuckle. “I’m not surprised they’d be looking for him though, if they’re also trying to find out what’s going on with the dragons.”

“Why would they want to get a hold of him, then?”

“You mean, aside from wanting to kill every Blade they can lay their hands on?” Delphine snorted. “Esbern was one of the Blades archivists, back before the Thalmor smashed us during the Great War. He knew everything about the ancient dragonlore of the Blades. Obsessed with it, really. Nobody paid much attention back then.” She exhaled, leaned back against the wall, and crossed her arms. “I guess he wasn't as crazy as we all thought.”

Neither woman said anything, seconds ticking by like hours, and when Gwyneira thought Delphine would remain quiet, she piped up, “Well, kind of funny how the Thalmor seem to think the Blades know anything about the dragons, isn’t it?”

Delphine let out a huff of laughter. “Ironic, right? The old enemies assume that every calamity must be a plot by the other side…” she trailed off, gaze drifting to some point away from that little room. She cleared her throat, breaking herself out of her trance. “Even so, we've got to find Esbern before they do. He'll know how to stop the dragons if anybody does. Do they know where he is?”

Gwyneira frowned, nodding, and handed Delphine the remaining notebook. “They seem to think he’s out in Riften.”

Delphine hummed, taking the book from Gwyneira and leafing through the pages. “Riften, eh? Probably the Ratway.”

“How charming.”

“It’s where I’d go, if I needed to hide out from someone.” She then mused and tossed Gwyneira a key. “You better head out to Riften, then.”

“What?” Gwyneira squawked, fumbling with the key before she grasped it in her palm. “Me? Why do I have to go?”

“Dragonborn--”

“My name is Gwyneira!” she snapped, and pushed past Delphine to get to the chest, unlocking it and digging through her belongings.

Delphine sighed. “Gwyneira,” she tried again, “we need to get to the bottom of this, and the Thalmor are already going to be on high-alert. I’m too recognisable.”

“And I’m not?” she shrieked.

“I understand your concern, but you’ll be far more inconspicuous to them than I would be.”

Gwyneira opened her mouth, glaring at the other woman, before she slammed it shut and nodded. “Yeah, fine, you’re right,” she conceded before scowling down at her hands. “I don’t like it, though.”

“I’d be surprised if you did.”

“Ha. Ha.”

“You should talk to Brynjolf, when you’re there,” Delphine told her. “He’d be a good start, anyway. He’s...let’s just say he’s well-connected. Bound to have some information.”

“Sure, sure,” Gwyneira muttered, “nothing I like more than crawling around in the sewers talking to strangers. Love it.”

 

* * *

 

 

  
“Looking to make some coin, lass?”

Gwyneira blinked up at the well-dressed red-headed man standing before her, grinning at her, and she glared.

“Excuse me?”

“Some coin. Do you want to make some?”

“I swear to everything that if this is a way to try to chat me up--”

He held his hands up, laughing. “Not chatting you up, lass, just trying to give you a business opportunity.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s your name?”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me yours.”

She huffed and rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she bit out. “I’m...Clothilde,” she said, her ears glowing and the name catching in her throat.

The man raised a brow and crossed his arms. “Is that so, lass?”

“As far as you know it is,” she bit back. “It’s an old family name, damn it. My mother’s side.”

It wasn’t a complete lie, she reasoned with herself, it was a family name, and it would have been her forename had her father not gotten his way.

“Then I suppose I have no choice but to tell you mine, eh?” He chuckled “You can call me Brynjolf.”

“I thought so,” she hummed. “An honest con-man,” she scoffed.

“Oh?”

“You have a way about you,” she said. “I have something to ask you.”

“We’re in a bit of a predicament,” he told her.

“How so?” she groaned.

“I’m not in the business of giving away information for free; I need something done and you need something from me. I say we propose a trade.”

Her eyebrow twitched and she folded her arms. “Is that so?” she grit out through her teeth.

“I think we can work out an arrangement.”

“Alright, look. I’ve had a really, really shitty week. No,” she paused, tapping her chin, “a shitty year. You would not believe the year that I’ve had. I do not have time to fuck around with you and whatever you want, so I’ll tell you what: you tell me what I need to know and I don’t set your cock on fire. Because trust me, I will,” she threatened.

He started to laugh, and she shook her hands, letting sparks begin to ignite between her fingers.

“I’m not fucking kidding.”

His eyes darted down to her palms and took a minute step back. “Take it easy there,” he tried. “There’s no need to act rash. I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”

“How about this: you tell me where I can find an ‘Esbern’ in the Ratway and your manhood remains intact? That sound fair to you?” She scowled up at him. “I cannot stress to you how serious I am.”

Brynjolf held his hands up and nodded. “You’ve made your point; I’ll tell you what you need to know. Though I doubt you’ll get much out of him.”

She huffed. “Whatever. Just got to get to him. And--” she groaned, her hand fishing around in her purse, “I can pay you. Seems only fair.”

“This one’s on the house,” he said. “You’ll owe me later.”

She pursed her lips and fought the urge to stamp her foot. “Fine. Whatever.”

He smiled at her and clasped her hand. “You’ll want to look in the Warrens. But I have to warn you,” he said, his eyes trailing up and down her form, “they won’t take too kindly to you being down there.”

“Trust me; I can handle myself.”

“I don’t doubt that. Careful, lass.”

  
  


 

 

 

“Why do these people live in sewers?” she groaned.

“Easy to stay out of sight.”

“Fucking--” she gasped, turning to see Lucien’s apparition next to her. “You could scare the hair off a cat,” she hissed, her heart hammering in her throat.

“So you’ve said before.”

She rolled her eyes and trudged forward. “I hate sewers,” she grumbled. Then, she gave a sidelong glance to Lucien. “Though, I suppose you find yourself quite at home, don’t you?”

“Dark, dank,” he mused, “It is not so bad.”

“I bet. What were you, a vampire when you were alive?” She frowned. “By the Eight, you weren’t, right?”

She always found it somewhat surreal that ghosts could sigh.

“Does that really require an answer?”

She flushed and kicked the ground in front of her. “No,” she mumbled, “I suppose not. Just checking.”

After some time, the pair walking in the still air of the damp sewer system, Lucien in front, Gwyneira bit her lip.

“Lucien?” she asked, and she watched him pause and turn to face her.

“Yes?”

She glanced around, lip still between her teeth before she swallowed. “Doesn’t it feel a bit too--I don’t know--quiet?”

He hummed. “You are correct. I’m not normally one to wish for unnecessary noise, but it does feel a bit suspicious.”

“This place gives me the creeps. Let’s just find this man and leave,” she said, the sound of dripping water growing louder and louder.

“Inkpot, kettle, knife, book--” The words drifted through the dim corridor, and Gwyneira paused.

“What the fuck?” she whispered.

“Must be one of the residents,” he said to her. “Maybe you should pay her a visit.”

“Or maybe not,” Gwyneira told him. “The less we run into, the better.”

She could almost feel him roll his eyes at her.

“Look, I’m not exactly in a hurry to tangle with someone who could be crazy. And judging by that,” she gestured with her thumb down the dark hallway, “I’d say that it’s a good fucking bet she’s mad.”

Everything was silent. Only the drip of water and its echo could be heard, and Gwyneira swallowed.

The woman had stopped talking.

Gwyneira held her breath, then released it when the woman started reciting her strange list again. Lucien glanced at Gwyneira, and she flushed under his scrutiny and marched past him, down the hallway.

“We’ve got to be getting close,” she whispered. “This place isn’t that big.”

Lucien said nothing, so she figured she shouldn’t either.

She spotted a metal door, solid instead of the normal cell doors she’d seen down there. She frowned and crept towards the doorway and frowned. It was completely flat. No handles, no lock, nothing to grab onto.

Delphine had said Esbern was paranoid, and if this was where he lived, then she supposed that might have been an understatement.

“I think this might be the right place,” she told Lucien who, again, remained silent. She rolled her eyes and raised her fist to knock on the door. “Hopefully it’s him,” she mused, “otherwise I’m really going to be pissing someone off right now.”

She thought she saw a flash of a smirk cross his features, and she grinned.

She rapped her knuckles on the metal, wincing at the clank that reverberated in the chamber.

“Go away!” a gruff voice called out.

“Esbern?” Gwyneira tried. “Is that you?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about, but you better get out of here; I have friends,” he threatened. “Powerful ones.”

Lucien scoffed. “Do you wish for me to get him?”

Gwyneira furrowed her brows, eyes wide and her lips pursed. After a moment, she said, “Er, thanks for the offer, but I’m going to say no.” Then she turned back to the door. “Come on, Esbern, I’m a--a friend!” She frowned and mumbled, “I mean, sort of.”

“I’m warning you for the last time!”

“Where were you on the 30th of Frostfall?” she asked, her voice sharp.

No sound came from the door for a long moment, and then the man’s voice came through, faint and--she thought--surprised. “The--the 30th of Frostfall?” he stammered, muffled.

Gwyneira huffed. “Yes, damn it. Delphine sent me. I don’t know what it means, but she said you would. Can you let me in?” She looked around behind her, seeing how tense Lucien had gotten. “I’m getting a little worried out here, and--”

“Yes, yes,” he cut her off. “Just give me a minute to get these locks open,” he interrupted her.

She could hear him mumbling behind the door, a series of clicks and whines as gears and tumblers rotated and separated from each other, before the door finally swung open, revealing an elderly man, a Nord, in worn clothing and a cozy, for what it was, sleeping arrangement.

“Nice place you have here,” she said, stepping inside, after which Esbern quickly slammed the door behind her, returning the numerous locks to their places.

She didn’t see Lucien behind her.

She wondered where he went, sometimes.

Gwyneira shook her head and slumped. “So, Delphine,” she prompted.

“Yes,” Esbern hummed, “you told me she sent you.” He let out a chuckle, running a hand over his scalp. “I can’t believe she’s still alive. I thought everyone had died.”

“There’s a lot of that going around.”

“Why did she send you here? How did you even know where I was?”

“It’s pretty involved, but to keep it short: I sneaked into the Thalmor Embassy and stole some of their paperwork, which said your name, and then I asked Delphine about it, and now here I am.”

“The Thalmor Embassy?”

“That’s another long story.   
  
Esbern regarded her, then asked again, “Why did she send you here.”

Gwyneira sighed and raked her fingers through her hair. She took in a deep breath before releasing it, tension draining from her shoulders. “You won’t like it, I reckon. “I was at Helgen. About a year ago,” she said, then shook her head. “Wow, I can’t believe it’s been nearly a year,” she breathed, then shook her head again. “I was at Helgen, after being captured in an Imperial ambush, and I almost--” she choked, then cleared her tightened throat, “I almost died. But…” she trailed off, watching how Esbern stepped closer, deep creases lining his forehead and mouth. “But,” she continued, “something interrupted it. A dragon.”

“A dragon?” he asked, his tone thoughtful.

Gwyneira nodded. “I know it sounds insane, but it’s true. A dragon attacked Helgen, and since then, more dragons have been appearing in Skyrim. Shit,” she breathed, “maybe other places, too.” She rubbed her temples. “Delphine thought that the Thalmor might be behind it, because the timing was so close--they were going to execute Ulfric Stormcloak--so she thought they’d found a way to, I don’t know, summon them or something, to keep the civil war going. Which is stupid.” She blinked. “Not that she’s stupid, I just meant that it would be stupid of the Thalmor. But anyway, that’s not the case since the Thalmor apparently have no idea what the hell is going on, either. That’s why they’re looking for you, I guess. Delphine says you’re the dragon expert.”

Esbern stared at her for a long moment, and she worried at first she’d spoken too fast and would have to repeat herself, but then he nodded and her spine loosened.

“Tell me what you know,” he said.

Her ears burned. “Well,” Gwyneira began, “it’s not much,” she admitted. “But, when Delphine and I went to Kynesgrove, she said a burial mound was there, the same dragon that was at Helgen showed up and...I think he resurrected one. I mean, after he said something to the dirt, another dragon popped up like some goddamn mountain flowers, but just his bones at first. Then, it was like he was brand new.”

Esbern was frowning and Gwyneira felt her stomach clench. “What did the first dragon look like?”

“Oh, wow, well, big,” she said. “Really big. Bigger than the other ones I’ve seen around. And black. Pitch-black.” She shuddered. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget it, or what it sounded like.”

“Sounded like?”

“At Helgen. It Shouted and the sky turned red and rained fire,” she blinked, clearing he eyes, and shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He peered at her and nodded and then turned to walk over to a desk and he pulled out a thick tome. He began flipping through the pages, mumbling under his breath. Gwyneira walked up to stand next to him, trying to glimpse at the text, but Esbern appeared to have found what he was looking for and snapped the book shut.

“I’m afraid the dragon you saw was no ordinary dragon,” he told her.

She scowled. “Of course it isn’t. Why would it be?” she mumbled. “Then what is it?”

“If everything I’ve studied is correct, then I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do.”

Gwyneira stood still for a moment, silent, squeezing her eyes shut and opening them, and then shook her head. “What the fuck?” she asked after a stretch of time. “What do you mean there’s nothing we can do?” she shrieked.

“It’s the end of the world,” he told her, his voice matter-of-fact and it brooked no argument.

She stared at him, mouth working without sound, before she glared. “The end of the world? Seriously? How would you even know that?”

“The dragon you saw at Helgen was Alduin.”

“Who the fuck is Alduin?”

He frowned at her, but she continued to glare, her arms folded in front of her and her jaw set. Esbern sighed. “Alduin the World-Eater: he’s the harbinger of the apocalypse. When he’s at full strength, he’ll swallow this world, destroying all who live in it.”

“Then shouldn’t we be, I don’t know, stopping him?” she asked, throwing her hands up in the air. “Listen, I’m not one to wildly run off into danger, but this kind of seems like the thing we should be stopping.”

“There’s no point,” he answered her. “There’s no hope without someone dragonborn, and that hasn’t happened in centuries. Ordinary men cannot defeat Alduin.”

“Then I have some good news for you because I’m the goddamn dragonborn.”

No one said anything for several seconds, though it might as well have been hours as far as Gwyneira was concerned. Esbern continued to gaze at her, his brows furrowing and he kept shaking his head. Finally, he opened his mouth. “You...you’re the dragonborn?” he breathed.

“Trust me,” she huffed, “you’re not the only one who’s let down,” she mumbled. “But yes, I’m the dragonborn. Apparently.”

“No, no, you mistake my tone,” he told her. “This is wonderful news! If you’re the dragonborn, and you must be if Delphine sent you to me. That means we still have hope. We have to get to Delphine.”

“Provided the Thalmor don’t beat us there,” she piped up.

Esbern frowned.

“I might have trashed their place the first time I ran into them; I can’t imagine they’re too happy with me at the moment. Less so if they think I’m helping you.”

…

Gwyneira fought back a yawn she felt building in her chest as she came back upon Riverwood, Esbern not far behind. The sun was setting behind the Reach, or at least where she imagined it was, and the air had grown colder, her lips and nose both growing numb. She was looking forward to getting both Esbern and herself to Delphine’s inn. She heard Esbern follow her as they both walked up the steps onto the patio of the inn, and she pushed the door open with a soft creak, the warmth of the main room suffusing her cheeks, and she rubbed her palms together to shake the chill out.

“Here,” Gwyneira said to Esbern, “I’ll go tell her you’re here. I’m--I’m sure she’ll be relieved to see you.”

Not waiting for an answer, she swept to the bar and found Delphine polishing an ale stein. Gwyneira could help but grin a bit when Delphine failed to notice her.

When Delphine glanced up to see Gwyneira, “You’re back!”

“Looks like it,” Gwyneira said, shrugging. “Esbern’s here, too.”

She saw the older woman’s face transform: her pinched mouth and creased brows relaxed and smoothed over, and her spine lost its rigidity. “He’s--” she stammered, “he’s alive? He’s really alive?”

Gwyneira looked away, ignoring the way Delphine’s voice started to crack at the end. “Er, yes, he is. He’s just--” The sound of footsteps broke her train of thought and she turned to find Esbern not far behind her. “--he’s just right here,” Gwyneira laughed.

“Delphine,” he said, “it’s--it’s so good to see you,” he told her, grasping her hand in his, and clasping her elbow with his free hand, giving it a shake. “It’s been far too long.”

Gwyneira kept quiet as she watched Delphine and Esbern and heard Delphine clear her throat.

“It has, indeed, my friend,” she replied, returning the handshake. Then, she dropped the limb and smiled, even at Gwyneira, who took a step back, and said, “You both made it, safe and sound. Good.” She nodded. “Come on, then,” she said, and nodded to Esbern, “I have somewhere we can talk.” Delphine then called out behind her, “Orgnar, hold down the bar for a moment, would you?” Gwyneira saw the man Delphine usually had around her nod, and Delphine gestured for both Esbern and her to follow.

After they made their way into Delphine’s cellar, things were--once again--quiet, and almost unbearably so for Gwyneira, who then walked over to Delphine’s desk and sat on the surface. “So, dragons then?”

Delphine nodded and gestured toward Gwyneira, addressing Esbern, “I assume you know about…?”

“The dragonborn? Indeed.” He, too, came up to the desk Gwyneira had perched herself atop of and began to empty his satchel onto the surface, scrolls and several small tomes spilling over the table. Gwyneira scooted herself over to avoid blocking their path. “There's no time to lose,” he said, digging through the papers and books he’d taken out, flipping through their pages and humming to himself. “We must locate--” he murmured too low for either woman to hear, and Gwyneira shrugged at Delphine.

“Esbern,” Delphine tried, “what--”

“Here!” he exclaimed, brushing the other objects out of the way and opening a book that Gwyneira glimpsed said something about ‘the Dragonguard.’ She arched a brow, unnoticed by the other two, and Delphine took a spot next to Esbern. “Right here,” he said, pointing to a page. “Sky Haven Temple, constructed around one of the main Akaviri military camps in the Reach, during their conquest of Skyrim.”

Delphine glanced over Esbern’s head at Gwyneira and mouthed, “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

Gwyneira shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. “Not really, but I do know that we’re apparently in the final days and that there’s a dragon who got the nickname ‘the World-Eater’ named Alduin who’s got plans on making us a cosmic smorgasbord unless someone--me--does something about it.”

“What?”

“Hush, now, both of you,” he said, and Gwyneira ducked her head. “This is where they built Alduin's Wall, to set down in stone all their accumulated dragonlore. A hedge against the forgetfulness of centuries. A wise and foresighted policy, in the event. Despite the far-reaching fame of Alduin's Wall at the time--one of the wonders of the ancient world --its location was lost.”

Gwyneira frowned, and Delphine seemed to mirror Gwyneira’s sentiments. Gwyneira piped up, “Er, do you mind explaining that in plainspeak?”

“You mean you haven’t heard of Alduin’s Wall?” he asked, looking between the two women. “Neither of you?”

“I don’t think my dragonborn handbook came with that chapter--”

“Let’s pretend we haven’t,” Delphine said, raising her voice and casting a scowl in Gwyneira’s direction. “What’s Alduin’s Wall and what does it have to do with stopping the dragons?”

 “Alduin's Wall was where the ancient Blades recorded all they knew of Alduin and his return,” Esbern explained. “Part history, part prophecy. Its location has been lost for centuries, but I've found it again.” His eyes brightened as he pulled his lips back in a smile. A grim smile, but a smile nonetheless. “Not lost, you see, just forgotten. The Blades archives held so many secrets... I was only able to save a few scraps…” he trailed off, gazing at a point on the far wall away from them.

“So,” Delphine mused, “you think Alduin’s Wall will tell us how to defeat Alduin?”

Esbern blinked, “Well, yes, but there’s no guarantee--”

“I guess it’s off to Skyhaven for us, then.” Delphine took another look at the area Esbern had pointed out, and then glanced back to Gwyneira. “I know that area of the Reach. It’s near what’s now called Karthspire, in the Karth River Canyon,” she explained.

Gwyneira nodded, biting her lip.

“We can travel together, if you like,” Delphine offered, but Gwyneira shook her head.

“Oh, no, thank you. I mean, I appreciate the offer, but I’ll probably just catch a ride to Markarth; I have some--er--business to deal with there, anyway. I can meet you both there. It doesn’t look like it’s too far from Markarth,” she added, peering over at the map.

Delphine held Gwyneira’s gaze for a long moment, until the younger of the two broke away from it. “Well, alright, then, just make sure to be careful,” she cautioned. “The Reach is wild country these days, overrun by the Forsworn. Don’t let your guard down.”

Gwyneira managed to keep from rolling her eyes. “Yeah," she muttered. "Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

Instead of heading right to Karthspire, Gwyneira had decided to take a detour and found herself back in Markarth and in front of The Hag’s Cure. She nudged the door open and Bothela looked up from her lab station.

“Gwyneira!” the alchemist exclaimed. “Haven’t seen you in awhile,” she mentioned. Gwyneira ducked her head and gave her a small smile. “I’m afraid Muiri isn’t here at the moment. She’s out collecting ingredients.”

“Oh, I guess I must have missed her,” Gwyneira said. “Do you--is it alright if I wait here for her? I could help with...stuff if you need anything.”

Bothela chuckled. “Why not? I’m sure Muiri will be happy to see you,” she told her, glancing at her out of the corner of her eye.

She blushed and rubbed her arm, making her way farther into the shop. “Hopefully,” she said. “I’ve been really bad about staying in touch, I know. Things have just been a little hectic.” She walked over to a shelf and perused the different bottles Bothela had labelled and lined up. “Is there anything you need me to do?” she asked.

“I’m working on something for the steward up at the Keep. It’d help me if you could crush those cloves of garlic,” she instructed. “I can’t stand the smell of the stuff.”

“You a vampire or something?” Gwyneira asked, laughing.

“A hag and a vampire?” Bothela gasped, never taking her eyes from her work. “Perish the thought.” The corners of her lips quirked into a smirk. “Don’t worry; your neck is safe from me.”

Gwyneira reached for the cloves and a mortar and pestle, and a loud pound on the door caused her to jump and fumble with the items.

Bothela let out a harsh huff, and shoved her work further back onto the lab and marched to the door. Gwyneira turned to watch the other woman, her brows furrowed, and she asked, “Someone seems impatient to see you,” she pointed out. “Why don’t they just come in?”

Bothela made a sound in the back of her throat. “Probably that Yngvar, here to shake me down for more coin. Thinks the knocking is intimidating.”

Gwyneira glared. “Excuse me?”

Bothela shrugged and wrenched the door open, revealing a tall Nord with dark hair and a rather rough expression. Gwyneira set her things down and stepped up beside the old woman.

“And what do you want, Yngvar?”

“Bothela, you know what I’m here for; it’s the first of the month.”

Gwyneira held her hand up and stepped in front of Bothela. “Alright, but exactly what does she owe you money for?”

He glared down at her and Gwyneira straightened her spine and stared up at him. Bothela reached out to touch her shoulder, but Gwyneira ignored it.

“For the privilege of using this space for her shop,” he answered. “It’s Silver-Blood land.”

Gwyneira looked to Bothela, who only sighed and went back to her counter, and she picked up a small purse and shoved it into Yngvar’s hand.

He turned to leave and Gwyneira bit out, “Yeah, big man extorting money out of a little old woman, right?”

“You Bretons are lucky we put up with your presence in Nord territory, what with all the Forsworn mucking about,” he snapped at her. “Should have run you all out years ago.”

Gwyneira bristled and sniffed at him. “We’re not all Reachman,” she told him, “and even if we are, we’re not doing anything wrong.” Then, she ran her gaze up and down his form and snorted. “Guess I can’t blame you for thinking that, though; I doubt you suffer from the burden of an overabundance of education.”

She let out a sharp cry when he snatched her bicep, and felt her fingers begin to go numb under his grip.

“Let go of me, you thick-necked idiot,” she shrieked at him, trying to wrench her arm from his hand.

“If you want to get by in Markarth, you better learn to watch your mouth,” he snarled, hauling her closer to him.

“Yngvar, knock it off,” Bothela demanded. “If you don’t, I can’t be sure what number of nasty skin conditions you might find in your more delicate areas.”

Yngvar looked back and forth between the two women and he shoved Gwyneira away from him, and she stumbled before being able to right herself. She rubbed her arm and scowled up at him.

“Fine, but make sure you guest minds her mouth, especially around the Silver-bloods. They won’t be as patient as I’ve been.”

“Yes, yes,” Bothela waved at him, “I’ll make sure she remembers that. Now get out of my shop; you have what you came for.”

With a last look, he turned around and slammed the door behind him. Gwyneira stuck her tongue out at the door before she inclined her head back towards Bothela. “What an arsehole,” she grumbled.

Bothela levied a look at her and Gwyneira blushed under the scrutiny. “You’re lucky he didn’t snap you in half.”

Gwyneira sighed and nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

“You really do need to watch your mouth around here. It’s bound to get you in trouble.”

Gwyneira laughed. “You don’t even know the half of it.”

Not a moment later saw Muiri entering the shop again, and her face blossomed into a smile when she found Gwyneira standing with Bothela. She grabbed the other woman in a hug, which was returned and Muiri buried her face in Gwyneira’s hair before pressing a kiss to her cheek. “What are you doing here?” she asked after a moment, tilting her head up a bit to gaze at her.

Gwyneira let out another laugh, though her voice faltered--just a second--but long enough for Muiri to frown. “No reason, really,” she said. “I mean, I have something to take care of, but I’m pretty sure I can put it off for a couple days.” She was positive she could get away with telling Esbern and Delphine that she needed to stop by Markarth to pick up some supplies.

It wouldn’t be a complete lie, anyway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A speedier update; again, it's not perfect (though I doubt any of my stuff is xD) but I'm trying. I wanted to get this out since the last update was pretty lacklustre and--in my opinion--the story is now picking back up. The last chapter was basically the chapter I was dreading the most and I feel all sorts of motivated now that it's out of the way.
> 
> Thank you all for continuing on with this story.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy, here it is. The sequel to "Fortune's Favorite" that no one asked for but I'm giving it anyway. I was super stressed with this thing but needed to get it out or it was never going to happen. Thank you to everyone and anyone who followed this from "Fortune's Favorite," that means a lot to me; I hope I don't disappoint any of you XD And, same as last time, I don't have a beta reader. I really try to comb through my pieces completely, but I miss things and my biggest enemies are inconsistent spelling/grammar. And sometimes too many adverbs. Again, I'll probably give this another comb through when it's entirely finished like I'll do with FF.
> 
> If anyone wants, you can follow me on my [Tumblr](http://burningsilence.tumblr.com/) to keep up with my updating schedule.


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